


A Song of Ice and Fire and Broken Things

by kangaroo2010



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Gen, Multi, Other, Team as Family, Wish Fulfillment, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-13
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2020-03-02 10:05:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 67
Words: 146,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18808969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangaroo2010/pseuds/kangaroo2010
Summary: Sometimes, all it takes to change everything is one simple change, something as small and simple and plain as one brother calling another brother home.





	1. Prologue

**Prologue**

LUWIN WAS TIRED.

            It disturbed him, that exhaustion. He knew that it should not, knew down deep in the bones that ached. He was old, after all, one of the oldest men he had ever known, even considering the archmaesters of the Citadel, men who had never swung a hammer or pulled a plow, men who had lived almost their entire lives surrounded by practitioners of the sharpest edges of medical knowledge. In the days since he had been sent away, since he had been chained and sworn, he had seen men cut down in their prime, women young and wide of hip cut down by the milk fever, hale and hearty children felled by plagues that had left lowborn waifs with little more than unpleasant memories. More than that, though, he had seen so many people, men and women both, highborn and low, come face-to-face with the Stranger and fail to walk away unscathed. He knew everything there was to know about how age sapped one’s strength, how what seemed easy at five-and-twenty was all the harder not a decade later, and worse still a decade beyond that.

            _And I am more than a decade beyond **that.**_

            And yet, he felt tired, more tired than he had ever felt, and it disturbed him.

            It was for a good cause, he felt. So much rested upon his shoulders. He had all his usual duties, the education of the young, the ministering to all who needed it, the sending and receiving of ravens, duties that would have worn out the strongest of men. But he had new duties now. The Lady Stark was gone on her desperate pursuit of justice, Lord Stark was gone on his mad pursuit of duty, and so it fell upon him to stand beside the Young Lord, to guide and him and counsel him and help him. Robb was a strong boy, just turned eight-and-ten, strong and hale and hearty and with a good head upon his shoulders, but he still needed help and wisdom. If Lady Stark had been there, she would be the one to nudge his elbow and guide him towards the light, but Lady Stark was gone, young Rickon wailed while young Bran glared and brooded and so her duties fell upon him, and he was a maester, chained and sworn, and he could only do his duty.

            But it was hard, and it was long, and it left him tired, and it was the last that shamed him, for all he knew that it was pure vanity, for all he knew that he was being a tired old silly fool. But he was only human, and so he sighed and rubbed his eyes and ran his fingers down his face and picked up the latest pertinent scroll and tried to focus.

            The words kept skittering off, the letters blurring and blotting together, but he had been tired before and he would be tired again and Winterfell needed him, so he set his shoulders and glared at the parchment and waved off the far-too-young scribe who offered to help. He almost had it, almost grasped what the paper was trying to tell him, when the door flew open with a _bang_ as loud as thunder and the childlike scribe ( _or maybe not so childlike, mayhaps I’m just too old_ ) gave a yelp as the Young Lord strode in and shoved a piece of paper in Luwin’s face.

            “Maester Luwin, I have need of a raven.” Luwin set aside his parchment and leaned back in his chair, tried to ignore the _pop_ and _crack_ of his tired old bones as Lord Stark’s heir dropped the letter onto Luwin’s paper-strewn desk. “The fastest one you have, to fly to Castle Black.”

            “Tonight, my lord?” Luwin asked, ignoring the tired rasp lurking at the edges of his words.

            “Yesterday would have been better, months ago even more so,” the young man Luwin could not help but think of as _Little Robb_ intoned, the boy doing his best to make his northern brogue sound lordly. “The raven never having need be sent? That would be best of all. Tonight, though, shall have to serve.”

            Luwin nodded, picking up the letter and focusing. It was not so hard as the dry, dull parchment he had just been hacking his way through. Young Robb’s hand was not as refined or neat as Luwin or Lady Stark would have liked, but Luwin was used to it, and his interest was piqued. “And what shall I be transcribing onto the raven’s scroll? Something for your brother, I assume?”

            The Young Wolf set his shoulders and laid a hand upon the hilt of his sword. “Read the letter, Maester, and see for yourself.”

            Luwin spared a moment to examine Lord Stark’s heir. The boy looked as if he was as tired as Luwin felt, though Luwin could not help but notice that the exhaustion sat better on him. _Marwen was right, youth is wasted on the young._ Luwin pushed the unhelpful thought aside, examined the boy more closely. Young Robb was tired, yes, but there was light there, too, deep in his eyes, a fire that spoke of a hard decision carefully considered and firmly made. The young man’s thick red-brown hair was unkempt, his chin unshaved, but his hand rested with a light but firm touch upon the hilt of his sword, and he stood with back straight and chin out.

            And just like that, Luwin knew what the letter would say. He still read it, though.

            He had to be certain.

            “Are you sure about this, my lord?”

            He looked up in time to see the Young Wolf deliver a sharp nod. “As certain as I’ve ever been of anything in my life.”

            Luwin sighed, set the letter down. “Your brother might already have taken his vows.”

            The boy shook his head. “He has not; Jon would have written to tell me so, and if he has, then the matter is settled and the letter will be pointless.”

            Luwin fixed the young man with what he hoped was a hard stare, unsoftened by the weariness he felt in his bones. “But my lord will still have the raven sent.”

            “Tonight.”

            Luwin nodded. “Tonight.” He let out another sigh. “Your lady mother will be very cross when she hears of this.”

            The boy shrugged. “Probably, but she is not here, and I am. Father has commanded preparations be made to call the banners, every rumor out of the south paints a picture of a pot about to boil over, I have been ordered to set a watch at Moat Cailin, and war is in the air.” He stopped, leaned forward, set both his hands flat upon Luwin’s desk. “I am the Stark in Winterfell, am I not?”

            Luwin could only nod. “You are, my lord.”

            “And in the absence of my lord father and lady mother, I speak with my father’s voice, do I not?”

            Luwin gave another nod. “You do, my lord.”

            The boy shoved off the desk, and his right hand found its way back to the hilt of that sword. “Then if it is to be war, I would have my brother beside me. He should never have been packed off to the Wall; that was a grievous mistake, born as much out of Mother’s hate as it was of any desire of Jon’s. Send the raven, _now,_ and call him back.”

            “He may refuse,” Luwin pointed out. Young Jon had grown tired of being little more than _the Bastard of Winterfell,_ had grown weary of Lady Stark’s ill-concealed glares, even a blind man could have seen that. On the Wall, even the lowest of the low could rise high, and Lady Stark was never like to see Castle Black, much less visit it. “The boy has a strong sense of honor.”

            Luwin was not prepared for the glare. “Read the letter again, and you will see that I command him, _as his liege lord, provided he has not yet sworn his vows,_ to return to Winterfell _with all haste_ and prepare to defend our hearth and home beside me.”

            Luwin looked down, read the letter again, and sighed. “So you do, my lord.”

            “Will you send the raven, then?”

            Luwin took up the nearest little raven scroll, dipped his quill in the ink pot, and set to transcribing.

            “As my lord commands,” he said, and hoped, deep in his most secret of hearts, that House Stark would not have reason to regret the words.

            The raven flew within the hour.

 


	2. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the end, Jon couldn't help but wonder if it might be better this way, better to never find out what would have happened if his brother had called him after he had sworn his vows.

**Jon**

THEY WERE JUST ABOUT TO SET OUT WHEN THORNE’S VOICE STOPPED THEM. “ _Snow!”_ Ser Alliser’s voice bellowed, his tone as hard and cold as his eyes. “ _Stop right there, Snow, and get your bastard arse away from that horse!”_

From the head of the little party, where he stood jiggling his keys and holding the reins of his spindly garron, Bowen Marsh rolled his eyes to the heavens and sighed. “ _Gods be good,”_ the Lord Steward muttered, as he shoved his keys back in his pocket and stomped his away around and through the group. “What now, Alliser?”

            Jon had to bite his tongue to suppress his laughter, though that laughter would have been tinged with currents hard and bitter. Everyone knew that Marsh was as close to a _friend_ as Alliser Thorne was like to have, and yet the man reacted to Thorne’s roar with ill-concealed annoyance. Jon looked to Sam, and saw the same unsaid questions, the same unvoiced words, writ plain upon his friend’s face. Living day-to-day with Ser Alliser’s scorn was bad enough, but for the first time, Jon found himself wondering what it would be like, to sit at table and sip some ale as Ser Alliser ranted about it.

            Jon wasn’t sure what to make of that, so he gave himself a shake and turned away from his horse, the better to see the coming confrontation.

            “Exactly what I said, Bowen,” Ser Alliser growled, his hand gripped so tight on the heel of his sword that Jon could almost see the whites of his knuckles through the thick gloves. “My Lord of Snow is to get his bastard arse away from that horse and come with me.”

            Bowen’s back was to Jon, but he could still see the Lord Steward’s shoulders rise and fall as the man took a deep breath, could clearly hear said breath escape through gritted teeth. “Seven hells, Alliser, surely this has gone on long enough. No more petty games, let him take his vows and be done with it. There will always be new recruits to torment.”

            Thorne’s reply was spoken to Marsh, but his flinty eyes were black as pitch and bored into Jon’s own. “You’re my friend, Bowen, but you forget yourself; this will go on as long as I will it so, but this has naught to do with me and Lord Snow.”

            Marsh let out another heavy sigh. “Then my question still stands, Alliser.”

            “The Old Bear wants the little lord,” Ser Alliser snapped, his eyes never wavering from Jon’s. “He told me to fetch the bastard before he passed through the Wall, and to bring him back right quick.”

            Marsh groaned and spread his hands. “So, what am I to do, stand here in the cold until you bring him back? I have duties, you know.”

            “No,” Thorne said, “Ser Piggy can still jiggle out to the weirwood trees if it pleases him, though the septon isn’t quite sober yet, so he _could_ make it to see the Seven, assuming his heart doesn’t give out along the way.” Thorne tore his gaze from Jon, the better to glare at Sam. “Mayhaps it would best if it did; I have a hunger for bacon.”

            Sam didn’t quail; Jon couldn’t help but be proud of that. For all that Sam professed to be a craven, Jon was sure that there was steel hidden deep within. The insults still rankled, though; they were about to become sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch, and yet Thorne was still playing his stupid games? _Enough._ Jon took a step forward, but Marsh beat him to the punch.

            “Enough of that, Alliser,” Marsh said, his voice thick with annoyance he did nothing to hide. “If the Old Bear wants Snow, then Snow he’ll get, but there’s no call to be a right old prick about it.”

            Thorn huffed. “If you say, Bowen.” He turned his gaze back to Jon. “Snow, with me, and move your bastard arse if you know what’s good for you. The Lord Commander is not fond of being kept waiting.” With that, Thorne turned on his heel and set off for the Lord Commander’s Tower, a cloud of bitter hatred seeming to follow in his wake.

            Marsh, meanwhile, sighed and turned back to the party. “Best be off, Snow, you can take your vows on the morrow.”

            Jon tried not to let his disappointment show; he really did. “There’s no chance of a small delay?”

            Marsh shook his head. “We go now, or not at all; only the gods know how long the Old Bear will keep you, and, as I told Ser Alliser, I have duties to attend to.”

            Jon wanted to argue with that but could not find an opening. “Of course, Lord Steward.” He bowed his head and turned to Sam. “I’m…I’m sorry, Sam.”

            Sam gave him a thin, weak smile. “It’s alright, Jon, not your fault.”

            Something quivered in his heart, something strange and sharp. For reasons Jon could not begin to explain, he was sure, deep down, that it _was_ his fault, or the fault of something intrinsic to him, at the least. Jon pushed it away, plastered a painful smile upon his face. “We’ll see about that, Sam. In the meantime, you can still make it to the sept.”

            “It’s true,” Marsh said, rejoining the group. “You won’t even need to hurry, Tarly. I know for a fact that they rousted Cellador early, but he’s not like to be dry enough to lead the ceremony for another hour or so.”

            Sam did his best to make that smile look brave, but it only became thinner and shakier. “I said I wanted to make a new start, see if a different set of gods would listen to me more than the Seven ever did, and I meant it. If you’ll still take me through…”

            Marsh shrugged and pulled out his keys. “Well, I did set aside the next hour or so for this, might as well do it.” The keys jingled as he walked towards his horse. “Best be off with you, Snow; Alliser may be a mean old cunt, but he’s right about the Old Bear and his lack of fondness for being kept waiting.”

            Jon nodded, gave Sam a wave, and set off, clicking his tongue at Ghost as he passed. Ghost gave out a whimper but was soon trotting along at Jon’s heels. Jon felt the direwolf’s disappointment as his own, though, he assumed they had different reasons. Jon had been on the cusp of becoming a brother of the Night’s Watch, moments away from taking his first steps on a road that would, he hoped, end in him never being called _the Bastard of Winterfell_ again, while Ghost had only been hungry for the hunting Beyond the Wall.

            _Oh, well. There’s always tomorrow, and who knows? Could be that the gods have heard my prayers and will send my uncle cantering in through the Wall in time to see my take my vows._

It was a nice dream. Jon wrapped himself tight within it, let it warm him as he trudged his way across the yard.

He found Ser Alliser waiting for him at the foot of the Lord Commander’s Tower. Jon skidded to a stop in a flurry of fresh fallen snow, not even bothering to hide the shock on his face.

            “Aye,” Thorne said, his face twisting as if the word caused him physical pain, “I was surprised when I stopped here, too. I meant to go off and let you bumble your way through the Tower, and yet here I am, waiting.”

            Jon took a deep breath, slowly let it out, his right hand opening and closing at his side. For some reason, he felt a desperate need for a sword, though if anyone had asked him _why,_ he would have found no reason to give. Instead, he was left to swallow the first retort that came to his lips, along with the second and third and fourth, settling for, “Should I bother asking, ser?”

            Thorne shrugged and shifted his weight from foot-to-foot. For some reason, Jon found the man’s discomfort more unsettling that the usual cruel mockeries. “You can ask, but you’re not like to get an answer. Only the Seven know, and they haven’t seen fit to tell me.” Thorne set his shoulders, and looked Jon in the eyes. _No,_ Jon thought, _he is **glaring** into my eyes._

_He hates me more than Lady Stark ever did, gods only know why._

            “I wanted you in the Rangers, you know. Oh,” Thorne said, holding up a hand, “contain your shock, but if you use what little wits you have, you’ll see why. As a Ranger, I could bend an arm here, twist an ear there, and soon the wildlings would rid me of you. I even tried to get you posted to the Shadow Tower; they’re always desperate for Rangers there. Only the best last long in the Gorge, and you’re far from the best.”

            “And if I wasn’t?” Jon didn’t know where the words came from, but he was strangely glad for them.

            For all that he was glad, the words only earned him a shrug so small that a blink would have missed it. “You’d be at the Shadow Tower, and I’d be unlikely to hear of it. At the very least, I’d never have to see your ugly face again, and you do have an ugly face, I don’t care what your mother told you.”

            Just like that, Jon’s discomfort was gone. He felt the old, familiar sensation settle into his bones, the one that came whenever Lady Stark would deign to spare him one of her brutal glares. “I never knew my mother, so I cannot speak as to what she thought of my face.” _Either she died in childbed, as Father said, or she took one look and took the first chance to be rid of me._

Jon had often wondered which was worse. He had yet to find an answer. He wasn’t sure he wanted one.

            What he did have was something that felt far worse. Something flickered in Thorne’s face, just for a moment, but for that moment, Ser Alliser’s eyes were not quite so flinty, not quite so black. No, for just that moment, those eyes were soft and grey, and there was something almost human in Thorne’s chiseled features.

            But then it was gone, and Thorne was jerking a thumb up towards the top of the Lord Commander’s Tower. “Fuck all of that, and fuck you, bastard. Up the to the top with you; the Old Bear is waiting.” And with that, Thorne was gone, turning on his heel so fast and marching off so quick that his cloak snapped in his wake.

            Jon watched him go, not quite sure why. He looked to Ghost, some part of him hoping to find an answer to questions he didn’t even know he had, but all Ghost gave him were blood-red eyes and a confused tilt of the head. Jon sighed, told the direwolf to wait, then shoved the door open and stepped into the tower.

            He entered the Lord Commander’s solar to a chorus of _corn._ That was expected; the Lord Commander’s raven was infamous, never failing to scream at all and sundry for corn, no matter that it was the fattest raven Jon had ever seen. What was less expected was Maester Aemon, seated by the fire, hands clasped in his lap.

            What was even less expected than _that_ was the Old Bear, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, looming behind his desk and doing what could only be called _brooding._

            “About time, Snow,” Mormont rumbled. “You took your sweet time…or was it Ser Alliser who dawdled?”

            Once more Jon found himself swallowing the first three or four answers to a question, settling on, “I’m sure Ser Alliser fetched me with all due haste, my lord.”

            Mormont chuckled at that, while Maester Aemon sighed. “You may have been raised like a lord,” Aemon said in his thin, raspy voice, “but you have a long way to go before you lie like one.”

            Jon shrugged, hoping they did not mistake the redness on his face for a blush. Jon may have only been eight-and-ten, his nameday having just passed, but he couldn’t help but feel that eight-and-ten was too old for blushing. “As a bastard, I was never like to be a lord, so I saw no reason to try and learn.” He bowed, first to Aemon, then to Mormont. “Begging your pardon, Maester, my lord, but you sent for me?”

            Aemon laughed again, joined by the low rumble of the Old Bear. “Oh, my boy,” Mormont said, “you would’ve made a good steward. A good officer, too, some day.”

            Jon frowned. _They’re grooming you for command,_ Sam had said, so sure, so firm. Jon had believed him, once his childish little snit was done, but now the doubts were back. “My lord?”

            Mormont sighed, shook his head. “Straight and to the point, just like your lord father. Here, Snow,” he said, holding up a raven’s scroll. “Read this, and all will become clear.”

            Jon gulped before he took the scroll. He didn’t know why he gulped, didn’t know why he felt the urge to not take the scroll, or, even better, to take it and throw it in the fire. For a moment, right after he took it, he almost did just that. Something told him that Mormont and Aemon were expecting that, _wanted him to do that,_ but then he did no such thing, no, he took it and unrolled it and tilted it towards the fire and, gods damn him to every hell there was, he read it.

            _Jon,_

_Something is coming, something bad. Father commands me to fortify Moat Cailin and prepare for calling the banners, Mother is off chasing ghosts, and I am left as the Stark in Winterfell, preparing for war. If war it is, then so be it, but if I must march South, I would march with my brother at my side. If you have not yet taken your vows, return to Winterfell; you should never have been packed off to the Wall. I correct that oversight now. Come back for the love you bear me as your brother, but if that is not enough, then I command you as your liege lord._

_Besides, Bran won’t stop asking for you._

_Your brother, Robb_

Jon gulped once more, and a part of him wished he _had_ tossed the scroll into the fire. “You have read this, my lord?”

            Mormont nodded. “I have, and this, too.” He held forth another scroll.

            “The raven came not an hour ago,” Aemon croaked out. The croak made Jon frown, made him uneasy. Maester Aemon was the oldest man in Westeros, so far as Jon knew, but he had never sounded it until just now. Something was troubling him, Jon could tell at a glance, something deep and profound, something that made the old man’s milky eyes glitter and tremble. “It came with scrolls wrapped around both its legs. One message was for you, and the other for the Lord Commander.”

            “Perhaps I should not read what was written for the Lord Commander,” Jon offered.

            Mormont sighed. “Perhaps you shouldn’t, but I’m the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, and I think you should.” He gave the scroll a shake. “Read, boy.”

            Jon took it and read.

            _My Lord,_

_My brother would no doubt be a worthy addition to the ranks of the Watch, but if he has not yet taken his vows, I would have him here. He has a prickly sense of honor, so he may decline. Therefore, I remind you that, until he swears his vows, my father is his liege lord, and in my father’s absence, **I** am Jon’s liege lord, and I command him to return to Winterfell with all due haste._

_My thanks, Robb Stark, the Stark in Winterfell_

            The scroll fell from limp fingers, landed on the floor with what felt to Jon like a clap of thunder. “But…my vows…”

            Mormont shook his head. “You have sworn no vows, and now your liege lord commands you to return to your home. If you had taken your vows, it would be different, but you haven’t, so that’s where it stands. The laws of the realm still bind you, and so, as much as it pains me, I cannot let you take your vows.” Mormont heaved one final sigh, heavier than all the others, and shoved himself up from the desk. “I am loathe to lose you, but there it is. You ride for Winterfell tomorrow, at first light.”

            Jon swallowed. _Hard._ “And if I choose to stay?” _If I choose to stay with my friends?_

_If I choose to stay, and no more be the Bastard of Winterfell?_

It was Aemon who answered. “Would you really refuse your brother’s call?”

            Jon closed his eyes, the better to stave off the tears.

            _No, I wouldn’t._

_Not in a thousand-thousand years._

He sighed. _Perhaps it’s better this way. Perhaps it’s for the best that I never found out what I would do, if Robb called for me after I had sworn._

He opened his eyes and gave the Lord Commander a small bow.

            “Apologies, my lord. You’ve been good to me, and I looked forward to serving you, but my liege commands me to go.”

            He looked up, in time to see Mormont nod, sad and slow.

            “Would that I had a son like you, my boy.”

            Jon winced. The words were kind, and kindly meant, but that did not stop them from cutting deeper than any of Ser Alliser’s taunts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yesterday, I said, what is this?! Well, the answer to that question has the benefit of being both the obvious one, as well as the correct one (rare, that).
> 
> This, is a Game of Thrones/Song of Ice and Fire fanfic. 
> 
> I know, I know, some of my longtime readers will be wondering, Hey, Morgan, where the fuck is that big ATLA fanfic you promised us? To them, I can only apologize; this plot bunny snuck up on me in the dead of the night, seized me by the throat, and wouldn't let me go. I couldn't stop thinking about it, couldn't even manage to shut up about it until my wife finally said, Jesus, Morgan, just write the damn thing, because I want to read this. 
> 
> And, well, my wife is nine months' pregnant with our second child, so it's not like I can refuse her. Thus, I'm writing it.
> 
> The basic premise should be obvious: What if Jon Snow never joined the Night's Watch? In my mind, the Watch would have to have some kind of mechanism, some kind of built-in loophole for just these situations. No lord would ever send their son to the Wall is there wasn't some kind of escape hatch, some kind of back door in case, say, the lord's elder two sons suddenly died, and the lord suddenly had need of that spare third son. It definitely sounds like something Jaehaerys the Conciliator would've come up with.
> 
> (By the way, I hope you're ready for tons of references to deep lore like that; I'm probably the only person in the world who is perfectly happy if GRRM decides to keep publishing what are essentially textbooks full of inconsequential lore from the niches of his universe)
> 
> So, Robb calls Jon home, catches him just in the nick of time, and the Watch sends Jon back. Eagle-eyed readers will notice that this has already had an effect, though we won't see the ramifications of that change for a little while. Don't fret; we won't be forgetting about the Wall.
> 
> I imagine quite a few of you will be wondering if this will be based on the books or the show. To that, I say, Mostly the books, I've read the damn things four-or-five times a piece since I stumbled upon them in high school waaay too long ago, might as well get some use out of them, but I'll be grabbing bits and pieces from the show when it suits me. For example, the show aged up the Stark children a few years, and I think that was a good move. Thus, the ages are:
> 
> Jon & Robb - 18
> 
> Sansa - 15
> 
> Arya - 12
> 
> Bran - 10
> 
> Rickon - 5
> 
> As for posting schedule, I hope to post a chapter apiece every Monday and Thursday until we're finished. Will I keep it up? Well, I'm a good fifteen chapters ahead of you guys, so I'm cautiously optimistic. Meanwhile, this note is getting waaay too damn long, so, without much further ado...
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, we pop down to King's Landing, where a blacksmith's apprentice wonders what the lords on their high hill are up to now. Stay tuned!


	3. Gendry

HIS DAY BEGAN AS ANY OTHER DAY DID, IN THE STILL QUIET BEFORE DAWN. He woke himself, his eyes sliding open on a world shrouded in darkness. Many masters on the Street of Steel, like anyone else in King’s Landing who could afford it, paid the halfpenny for the knockers to come and roust the apprentices with a bang of their long staffs on walls or window shutters, but Master Mott believed all of his extravagances should be saved for the armor he worked. Master Mott expected his senior apprentices to roust themselves, and then to roust the junior boys in turn, and Gendry had never had a problem with that.

            So, he woke, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and threw open the shutters. King’s Landing never slept, they said, but it did doze; the sight that greeted him was as quiet and still as the city was ever like to be. Cats yowled and dogs barked and knockers made their rounds. He took a deep breath, absorbed the smells of cooking fires and forges, did his best to ignore the stench of sweat and offal. The latter wasn’t hard; he had been born of the city, would die of the city, he had no doubt. He was the bastardborn whelp of an alehouse serving girl, and the stench was far worse in Flea Bottom. That was where he would be, if Master Mott hadn’t liked the look of his shoulders, so Gendry took in the city and said a silent prayer to the Smith and turned to the other bed in the room and gave it a kick.

            “Bugger off,” Hobb growled, angry and sullen, even as he rolled himself up and out of the bed. “By the Seven, Gendry, one day I’ll wake before you, and we’ll see how much _you_ like being rousted with a kick to the arse.”

            Gendry rolled his eyes at the other senior apprentice and started to dress. “Aye,” he said, snatching his clothes from the floor by the door, “and if pigs could fly and breathe fire, they’d be as good as dragons.” He gave his pants a shake, noted that they had been both cleaned _and_ pressed. That was Willow’s work, no doubt. Master Mott employed three serving girls (though Old Sybilla was old enough to the other two girls’ mother), who took the necessary duties in turn. All of them could be relied upon to keep clothes clean, but only Willow bothered to press them, as well.

            “Would that they could,” Hobb said, stretching his arms up above his head until his back cracked. He groaned with pleasure, rubbed his eyes, and caught his tossed trousers with a deftness Gendry did his best not to envy. “Then I’d need only a silver stag and I’d be as good as a king.”

            Gendry chuckled as he slipped into his shirt and grabbed his boots from under his bed. “Mayhaps, but if pigs were as good as dragons, they’d cost more than a stag.”

            Hobb shrugged himself into his own shirt. “Fine, I’d need a dragon. If I was a king at the end, it’d be money well spent.”

            Gendry finished lacing his boots and flipped Hobb the double fingers as he headed out the door to wake the junior apprentices, who would, in turn, wake the smithy’s boys. “Bugger off.” That earned him no more than a laugh, which was what he expected. Nine years Gendry had known Hobb, and not once had he beaten the other boy in wordplay. Gendry had hope, though.

            _There was always tomorrow…_

They all broke their fast in the common room, wolfing down bread and cheese and bacon and quaffing ale mixed with boiled water. The boys ate the quickest, bolting down their food and their watery ale before rushing off to light the forges. The junior apprentices took a bit more time, but were soon off, to watch the boys and to start on their own work, leaving Gendry and Hobb to actually taste their food. They had their own work to do, but being senior apprentices came with privileges as sacred as they were unspoken, so they chewed and swallowed and chewed some more. Hobb, as usual, flirted with Willow until her face was as red as Lannister crimson, until Old Sybilla grew tired of the delays Hobb caused and came storming out of the kitchen to smack Hobb upside the head with a wooden spoon as thick as three fingers pressed together.

            This, too, was normal, expected, _routine._ Even the teasing Hobb dealt out was normal, as they finished their trenchers, quaffed the last of their watery morning ale, and headed for the forges. “It’s not me she wants, you know,” Hobb said, giving Gendry a thump on the back, “it’s you, with your soft blue eyes and thick broad shoulders.”

            “Are you sure?” Gendry asked. “She blushes red enough when you tease her.”

            “Only because I tease her in front of you. The one time I tried to tease her without you around, she rolled her eyes and told me to fuck off.”

            “Perhaps you should,” Gendry suggested.

            Hobb just rolled his eyes and veered off towards his bench. “Perhaps you should stop being such a ninny.” With that, they settled at their respective benches and set to work, even as Gendry’s ears burned with a fire hotter than any forge.

            All of this was normal.

            All of this was routine.

            The day proceeded as usual from there. Master Mott broke his fast in his room, on fare finer than that served to his boys, as was his right as Master. When he was finished, he came down to the forge, to teach and chide and guide and instruct. When he wasn’t working on some piece that required the touch of a Master, or instructing his apprentices on a finer point of smithing, he was in what passed for the smithy’s foyer, showing off his wares and bowing and scraping to the lords who gave him their custom. It was a slow day, which meant that Master Mott only had to call for a senior apprentice twice to help with fittings. Gendry played Odds and Evens with Hobb first and lost, which meant that Gendry took one and then Hobb took the other. Beyond that, Gendry’s day passed in a haze of hard work, the hours slipping away with each blow he struck with his hammer, the day dwindling with each wheeze of the billows.

            They were all gathered in the center of the forge, working through the midday meal, wiping sweat from their brows and listening to Master Mott’s wisdom, when the riders thundered past.

            It wasn’t the riders that gave them all alarm, that made the hair on the back of their necks stand on end. No, it was the silence that followed the thunder of hoofs, followed by the slamming of doors and the shuttering of windows. Gendry and Hobb rose, along with Master Mott. The other boys started to stand, too, but the Master waved them back to the benches as he made for the door, beckoning for his senior apprentices to follow. Gendry went first; he was only six-and-ten, but that still made him a year older than Hobb.

            _At least, I **think** I’m six-and-ten, _Gendry thought as he trailed Master Mott. If he had a name-day, none had seen fit to tell him, and even if it had been written down in the ledgers of some sept, Gendry could not have read it. He celebrated his name-day on the Day of the Smith, and six-and-ten seemed as good a number as any other. He and Hobb had debated it once, which of them was older than the other. In the end, they had decided that it didn’t matter; Hobb had come to Master Mott’s shop six turns of the moon after Gendry, and he was an inch shorter, so on the next Smith’s Day, they had decided that Hobb was a year younger and that had been that.

            The “foyer” of the shop was clean and neat, perfect for receiving lords and lordlings and the occasional hedge knight awash in tourney winnings (the King was fond of tourneys, and Master Mott’s work didn’t come cheap), but it had its secrets. Two of them flanked the front door, great big staves, thick and heavy and made of hammered steel. Master Mott stepped through the door, snapping his fingers at the staves, leaving Gendry to take up one and Hobb the other. Gendry nodded and Hobb, who put on his usual easy smile and waved his own stave at the door, beckoned Gendry through.

            Gendry followed right on Master Mott’s heels, making sure to smack the stave into his hand from time-to-time. Nine times since Gendry had become a senior apprentice had someone tried to rob or cheat his Master, and only twice had the act of Gendry smacking the stave into the palm of his hand failed to produce the desired results.

            _And I only had to kill a man once._ Gendry hadn’t meant to kill the hedge knight’s minion, but the man pulled a knife and lunged at Master Mott and Gendry had panicked and swung too hard and brains had scattered across the lane. If it had been a lordling’s minion, Gendry would’ve found himself at the end of a rope or marching for the Wall, but the hedge knight’s eyes had been wide as saucers as he paid what was owed. Gendry had managed not to retch until after the skinflint-with-a-knighthood and his party were gone, taking their dead friend with them.

            Master Mott had seemed proud of that.

            He and Hobb took their positions to either side of the door, smacking and swinging their staves, doing their best to look formidable, leaving Master Mott to stride up and down the street, talking to anyone he could find. Once, two gold cloaks came marching by, spears in their hands and palms on their swords, giving the sight of senior apprentices hefting blunt objects outside various doors no heed, which told Gendry all he had to know about how serious the situation was. Normally, gold cloaks would have taken ill the sight of armed apprentices hefting staves in front of every door, but when trouble loomed, they looked the other way. Master Mott was standing in a knot of other masters, all of them talking softly but gesturing wildly towards the Red Keep, but Master Mott and two other masters peeled off when they saw the gold cloaks. Coins twinkled in the afternoon sun, and then the masters and the gold cloaks were deep in conversation. Gendry heard none of it, he was too busy trying to look threatening, but in the end Master Mott returned, shaking his head and waving his senior apprentices back into the shop. Gendry and Hobb waited until Master Mott was inside, before giving the now-deserted street one last glower and following him through the door.

            Master Mott was waiting, his keys in his hand. Once they were through, Master Mott slammed the door, locked it, and wedged the bar in place. Then he called for the boys and ordered them to pull the shutters on the windows, and when Old Sybilla appeared, he commanded her to lock and bar the back door.

            It was Hobb who spoke first, as always. Gendry never would’ve dared. “What’s amiss, Master?”

            Master Mott sighed and ran a hand across his bald head. “Treason, it seems,” his normally slight Qohorik accent thickened by stress. “Word from the Red Keep is that Lord Stark is arrested. A curfew has been declared, that’s what those riders were shouting. They wore Lannister crimson-and-gold, so it seems the lions have the city and the gold cloaks are doing their biding.”

            Gendry grimaced. _I wonder how much Slynt charged for **that** service. _Janos Slynt’s avarice was infamous, even for a gold cloak; rumor had it that the smugglers were avoiding King’s Landing these days, claiming that the bribes Slynt demanded were far too high. Gendry couldn’t help but feel a strange sadness, though. Lord Arryn had been cold and imperious and Lord Stannis had glared at Gendry like he was some squashed insect found on the bottom of his lordly boot, but Lord Stark, though reserved, had been kind and thoughtful. Gendry had been unable to dislike him as Gendry did most lords, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

            _Not that it matters now. He’ll either go to the Wall or find his head upon a spike, and it’s naught to do with me._ He did have one question, though. “Is there to be a sack, like the last time?”

            Master Mott shook his head. “I doubt it. No army marches on us, and Lord Renly fled in the dead of night, it seems.”

            “That still leaves Lord Stannis,” Hobb pointed out.

            Master Mott just shrugged. “Mayhaps, but that’s naught to do with us. The Street of Steel escaped the worst of the Sack the last time, and I see no reason why now would be any different. Besides, Lord Stark is arrested, the Lannisters have the gold cloaks, and the gold cloaks have the city. We’ll just close the shop, keep our heads down and see what the morrow brings.” With that, Master Mott strode off through the shop, no doubt to make sure Old Sybilla had locked the back door properly.

            Leaving Gendry and Hobb by the front, staves still in hand. Gendry swallowed. He felt nervous, why, he could not say. Sure, a few high lords had come by to ask uncomfortable questions, high lords who had left without placing any orders, but that was not all that unusual; they weren’t the first lords to come sniffing for armor only to balk at the price. Besides, who could possibly care what lords strolled through Master Mott’s front door to stare at Gendry?

            _Still…_

“Should we worry?” Gendry asked Hobb.

            Hobb just shrugged, setting his stave on his shoulder. “Why should we? The lords are playing their game of thrones. Unless armies start to march, and even then, we’re apprentices in the heart of King’s Landing, not smallfolk in the riverlands, so why worry? Besides, who could possibly give a fuck about us?”

            Gendry nodded. The words were true. _Who could ever give a fuck about us? Let the lords play their game of thrones and leave us to forge their armor for them._ This could even be good for them, or, at the very least, good for Master Mott. Everyone knew that lords loved nothing more than going to war in shiny, brand-new steel plate, the grander the better.

_And yet…_

Gendry shook the thought away. It would not serve, and besides, it made no sense.

            After all, why would some lord or lady on Aegon’s Hill give even half a damn for some bastard-born apprentice on the Street of Steel? It all had naught to do with him.

            Less than that, if anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you guys asked, How Jon-centric is this going to be, to which I answer, Very, until it isn't. At the this stage of the narrative, the ripples from the point of divergence (a nice little piece of alternative history jargon for you there) haven't even made it south of Winterfell, so the story as we know it is still progressing much as it did in the first book/first season. Ned still gets arrested, the Mountain still runs wild in the riverlands, Riverrun and Casterly Rock are still marshaling their armies, Lysa's madness has just let Tyrion clip through Cat's fingers, Viserys still gets his crown of gold, Dany still thinks her dragon eggs are dead, you get the idea. I don't want to rehash ground that GRRM and the show already covered, so I'm going to keep the story focused on the effects of the change I made right at the beginning. As time goes on, we'll start hopping around a lot more, as that one little change makes more and more ripples and those ripples spread out every further.
> 
> That sets me a little challenge. I don't want this early part to just be a slog of jumping from Jon to Robb and back again, plus, it's worthwhile to hop down to, say, King's Landing or the Trident to check in on others and establish where we are in the timeline. When I have to do that, I'm going to try and see the event from a different set of eyes than we saw it in the books, for my own amusement as much as anything else. Cool, huh?
> 
> Just a couple more thoughts before I go. I've gotten a few more questions about possible ships, and again, this isn't a romance-oriented fic, and besides, there is only one ship I'm ride or die for, and that's Zutara...and I guess Rayllum...oh, right, GoT...okay, there's only one GoT ship I'm ride or die for, and that's Sam and Gilly. I can promise you Sam and Gilly, and you can take that to the bank. Everything else is up in the air, but Sam and Gilly are a big reason why Sam will NOT be going south with Jon, that, and I need SOMEBODY on the Wall, you know?
> 
> Anyhoo, my son needs lunch, so...
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, Jon reaches the Last Hearth in rather more congenial company than the last time. Stay tuned!


	4. Jon

THE SECOND TIME JON SAW THE LAST HEARTH WAS QUITE DIFFERENT FROM THE FIRST. For one thing, he was going south, not north, returning to his brother rather than fleeing the thousand-thousand tiny cuts that were a bastard’s life. The company was different as well. The Old Man hadn’t wanted Jon making the journey alone, had ordered Grenn and Pyp and Sam to escort him as far as the Umbers’ seat. Grenn was strong and Pyp was clever and Sam was as good a friend as a man could ask for, but they weren’t Yoren with his sourleaf-stained foul mouth or his uncle with his silences or Lord Tyrion with his japes. Jon didn’t miss Yoren, didn’t miss the sullen “recruits” Yoren had been bringing to the Wall, the recruits who had shattered so many of Jon’s dreams and illusions, but he couldn’t help but feel the lack of his uncle. Jon even missed Lord Tyrion, who had always been ready with a cutting remark as sharp as it was wise and true.

            _I wonder what the Imp would say to that,_ Jon thought as they drew their horses up on a hill a few miles from Last Hearth, _if I called his japes **wise**. _Jon couldn’t help but smirk. _Something cutting, no doubt._ Jon could almost hear the retort. _A man won’t get far calling a dwarf wise,_ Lord Tyrion would have said, _nevermind a bastard._ Then the Imp would have told a jest ribald enough to make a sailor blush, turned a page in his latest book, and popped the cork from a fresh skin of wine.

            “What’s so funny?” Grenn asked.

            Jon turned in his saddle, frowning. “Come again?”

            Grenn shrugged. “You were smiling, Jon. I just wanted to know what was funny.”

            “Your face, most like,” Pyp chimed in from the rear of the party. “Though how anyone could call something so ugly _funny_ is a mystery to me.”

            Grenn shot the big-eared boy a glare. “One of these days you’re going to get tired of calling me ugly.”

            Pyp just smiled. “In the Common Tongue, perhaps, but there are so many other tongues to call you ugly in.”

            “Thank the Seven we’re to spend our lives at the Wall, then,” Grenn replied, his glare softening as he leaned back in his saddle.

            To Jon’s complete lack of surprise, Pyp was undaunted, hooking a thumb at Sam. “Never fear, I’ll just have Sam give me a few pointers. That lordly education of his has to be good for _something._ ”

            Grenn’s glare was twice as fierce by the time he’d turned to Sam. “You wouldn’t, would you? Help him learn a new language just so he could insult me in new ways?”

            Sam’s eyes flew wide, his hands gripped tight around the reins of his horse. “I…no, of course not…I mean…” He gulped, for all that Grenn was the last person who would ever cause him harm. “I…I wouldn’t _intend to…_ ”

            Grenn’s face went from angry to confused. “What does _that_ mean?”

            Pyp opened his mouth to answer, but Jon misliked the gleam in his friend’s eyes and cut him off, saying, “It means that Pyp has a mouth as big as his ears, and thinks he can get away with anything, now that he won’t have Ghost around to make him mind.”

            Grenn laughed. “He said you had big ears!” he said, pointing at Pyp.

            Pyp shrugged and smiled. “It’s not an insult if it’s true, Grenn.”

            Grenn’s laugh died a quick death. “But you keep saying you never insult me.”

            “ _And your face really is that ugly,_ ” Jon and Sam groaned, in perfect time with Pyp. Pyp shot them both a glare. “The Wall will be a damn sight more fun without Lord Snow around to keep me honest,” Pyp grumbled, though a quiver at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

            Jon reached out to clap Sam on the shoulder. “That might be, but Sam will still be there to make you feel guilty about it.”

            Sam’s eyes went wide and his face blushed red, but Grenn smiled and Pyp just sighed and said, “He would, wouldn’t he?”

            Sam shook his head, a hand raised as if to ward off a blow. The act made Jon wince, just like it always had; Jon’s father had never believed in sparing the rod, but there was a world of difference between a few blows on the buttocks and the horrors Sam’s father had dealt out. _And here I am, riding south. Who knows? If it’s war, we might even march on the Reach, and might be I’ll have the chance to have a few words with **Lord Tarly.**_ “I…” Sam stopped took a deep breath, looked at Pyp without looking at him. “I wouldn’t intend to…”

            Pyp sighed. “Aye, and that would make all the difference.” He shook his head, looked to Grenn. “You’re not _that_ ugly, Grenn.”

            Grenn flipped Pyp two fingers. “Bugger off, Pyp.”

            That set them all to laughter. They were still laughing when the rider whom Jon had spotted galloping from the gates of Last Hearth finally reached them.

            The rider pulled up in a flurry of grass and dirt, his horse crying out in protest. The man was wearing boiled leather and cheap mail, his surcoat bearing the Umber badge of a roaring giant with broken chains on its wrists. “What brings you to the Last Hearth?” he commanded, his eyes dark and full of suspicion, glaring out from beneath an old halfhelm of dented steel. “State your business.”

            His friends’ eyes all shot to Jon, leaving him to sigh. _Back to the old world,_ he thought, giving his horse a light kick and cantering towards the rider. _Back to the realm of lords and ladies and the Bastard of Winterfell._

He bit down on a sigh, Maester Aemon’s words echoing in his ears. _Your brother prepares for war. He calls for a man, not a boy. Would that my own brother had called for me, in those horrid years before Summerhall._

 _Kill the boy,_ Maester Aemon had said. _Kill the boy, and let the man be born._

Jon pushed the memory away, fixed his eyes on the rider. “I am Jon Snow, natural son of Lord Stark, ordered back from the Wall by Lord Robert, the Stark in Winterfell.” He waved back towards his friends. “These are my companions, sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch, ordered to escort me as far as His Lordship’s seat.”

            The rider gave a short, sharp nod. “We figured, but Lord Umber said to be sure. We’ve been expecting you, m’lord.”

            That brought Jon up short. He was so surprised, he almost missed being called a lord. “You have?”

            That earned him another sharp nod. Jon was starting to suspect that everything this man did was in some way short and sharp. “Aye. Lord Robert sent word that you might be coming back down the kingsroad, and here you are. Follow me, Lord Umber will be wanting a word with you.”

            “And my friends?” Jon asked.

            The rider shrugged. “They can fuck off to the Wall if they want, but Last Hearth always has room for brothers of the Night’s Watch, if they’d like food and drink and dry beds before they go.” He turned his horse around, started cantering back towards Last Hearth. “We’d all best be quick about it, though; m’lord doesn’t like being kept waiting.”

            _No,_ Jon thought, as he and his friends exchanged glances and followed the rider, _lords never do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, my son got randomly sick yesterday. It was nothing serious, really, just a random 24-hour bug; if you're a parent, you know the type. Low-grade fever, throwing up, grumpiness, poor sleep, the works. He's over it now, but I pretty much didn't sleep a wink. Normally, my wife and I would've traded off in shifts, but she's literally nine-months' pregnant so it was all down to me. Thus, I'm super tired, and I'm going to toss this up, say hi, and go lie down.
> 
> Before I go, though, two quick notes. One, what's up with flipping the double fingers? In the UK and UK-oriented places (like Australia or Ireland), instead of shooting someone the middle finger like here in the States, they are more likely to flip the V, as in, basically the peace sign, only with the knuckles out. If you didn't know about this particular quirk, check out the car chase scene in the first Kingsman movie, right after Eggsy and his mates have stolen the car and are being chased by Old Bill (what can I say, I've read a lot of Constantine comics in my time). That, or look up Horse Outside by the Rubberbandits; you won't regret it. Anyways, everyone in the show is British of some sort, and I liked the idea of them using British obscene hand gestures.
> 
> Also, you guys need to stop trying to guess upcoming plot points, because one of you has already guessed a big one; if you're not careful, you guys will, together, accidentally plot out the whole story!
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, Sam is feeling a bit moody. Stay tuned!


	5. Samwell

**Samwell**

HE WAS DOING ALRIGHT UNTIL THE DANCING STARTED.

            Sam had expected the feast, had tried to warn Jon. Jon had sworn that there would be no _great feast,_ that _Greatjon Umber_ was not the kind to throw elaborate parties in the hope of currying favor, and Sam had, for a moment, let his friend convince him. But then they had ridden into the yard and seen the men and servants hurrying to-and-fro, seen the men-at-arms practicing at swordplay in thick knots, and Sam had known there would be a feast. The North was preparing for war, Lord Umber was making ready for the raven that would call the banners, and thus there would be _something_. No doubt Lord Umber (who, according to Jon, had never needed much excuse to throw a revel) was feasting every night, or near enough as made no difference, and Jon was the son of Last Hearth’s current lord and brother to the next. There would be a party, as grand as Last Hearth could provide. Sam had told Jon so, as they rode up to and through the gates, but Jon had only shaken his head. _Why bother? I’m only a bastard, and Lord Umber didn’t throw a revel the last time I was here._

 _The last time,_ Sam had wanted to say, _you were just one more lord’s bastard being packed off to the Wall. This time, you’re Lord Robert’s brother, important enough to be called back before swearing your vows._ He hadn’t said it, though. The part of him that was still a Tarly of Horn Hill had wanted to, but the words stuck in his throat, leaving him to splutter and frown until Pyp had made a jape and Sam had leaped upon the chance to laugh with everyone else.

            But Sam had been right. Jon had been dragged off by the rider who had greeted them to _have words with Lord Umber,_ leaving Sam and Grenn and Pyp to follow one of the steward’s boys to a small, cramped room, made even smaller and more cramped by having three beds shoved into a space that was obviously only made for two. Sam and the others had taken the chance to change from their traveling clothes, washing their faces and hands and armpits in a basin of lukewarm water brought by a spindly serving girl. They were still there, Pyp running his mouth and Grenn nodding along and Sam doing what he himself could only call _brooding_ when Jon reappeared, fresh from Lord Umber’s solar. Jon’s face was pale and drawn, and Sam knew in an instant that Jon had found a message from his brother in that solar, and that message had been nothing good. Jon didn’t let that slow him down, though. He had japed and laughed and told them all that there would, indeed, be a feast, _a grand one, too, Lord Umber insists, and you’ll even be seated above the salt._ Grenn hadn’t known what that meant, and Pyp and Sam had tried to explain, but in the end, they had given up and stood and followed Jon to Last Hearth’s great hall.

            The fare had been hearty but simple, the ale endless and strong, the music loud and booming. Lord Umber had led them all in a half-dozen toasts, until Sam’s head was swimming and Grenn’s face was red as the summer sun at dusk. Sam had found himself marveling at Pyp, who was thinner than a lance and possessed of ears and a nose that weighed more than the rest of him, and yet Pyp was the one who had quaffed tankard after tankard to seemingly no effect. Stout Grenn was already slumping in his chair on the third toast, leaving Pyp to smack Sam on the shoulder and laugh at his surprise. _I may be nothing more than a mummer’s boy,_ Pyp had boasted, _but you’ve obviously have never seen a mummer drink!_

            Through it all, Sam sipped the heady ale and nibbled at the food, focused on keeping Grenn upright and trying not to laugh too hard at Pyp’s antics. From time-to-time, he would glance to the head of the hall. Sam and his sworn brothers were seated above the salt, but they were still far away from Lord Umber’s place, and Jon was seated at Lord Umber’s left hand, looking rather small next to the Great and the Smalljon, Lord Umber’s eldest son and heir. When Lord Umber wasn’t leading a toast, others were, and when others led the toasts, Lord Umber had his head bent close to Jon’s, deep in conversation. It looked serious, the young man who had once been a Tarly could not help but see, and Sam didn’t miss that Jon was being as careful with his ale as Sam was. But this, too, was expected, to Sam at least. He loved Jon as the brother he had always wanted, the brother he had almost had, but Jon wasn’t either of those things now. Jon was being called home, and if House Umber was preparing to march to war for Winterfell’s sake, Lord Umber would have much and more to discuss with the brother of the Stark in Winterfell, bastardborn or not.

            So, Sam sighed and tried to relax, sipping his ale and laughing at Pyp and finally giving up on keeping Grenn upright, letting Grenn slump onto the table, where his loud snores delighted all who chanced to hear them. Pyp had quaffed a keg’s worth of ale and seemed none the worse for it, which was why Sam shouldn’t have been surprised when the former mummer’s boy grew tired of the somewhat repetitive tunes of the band. Sam watched, not suspecting a thing, as Pyp cartwheeled over the table, marched on the singers, and engaged in an animated conversation with the band leader that Sam could not hear. And then, in a flash, Pyp had snatched a pipe from one of the musicians and the lead singer was bellowing _A BEAR THERE WAS A BEAR A BEAR_ and a cheer went up and Lord Umber was being dragged onto the dance floor by the equally sturdy Lady Umber and couples began to pair off and the singer bellowed _ALL BLACK AND BROWN AND COVERED WITH HAIR_ and Sam was laughing until he saw one of Lord Umber’s daughters drag a protesting Jon out onto the floor and the dancing began and Sam wasn’t alright anymore.

            _OH COME THEY SAID OH COME TO THE FAIR!_

_THE FAIR? SAID HE BUT I’M A BEAR!_

_ALL BLACK AND BROWN AND COVERED WITH HAIR!_

In a flash, he wasn’t a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch, the personal steward to a maester chained and sworn, finally slotted into the perfect role, the perfect place, with actual friends. In a flash, he was years younger, fat and lonely, as Dickon, the brother who was everything Sam was not, grabbed Sam by the shoulder and tried to get him to dance. _Come on,_ Dickon was saying, _you’re the heir to Horn Hill, you don’t have to be any good, **come on!**_ Their father was hard and cruel, but Dickon was not. Dickon was bright and clever and graceful, everything the son of Lord Randyll Tarly should be, but Dickon was never cruel, Dickon was always trying to get his older brother to smile and dance. _It’s “The Bear and the Maiden Fair,” you don’t have to be good at dancing to it, just dance, it’ll be good for you, and it’ll make Mother smile!_

            Sam had waved him off, as he always did. Sam had sipped his wine and tried not to notice Father’s glares and wondered how the Seven could be so cruel as to make him the elder son, and Dickon the younger. If only their order had been reversed, Dickon could’ve wielded Heartsbane and Sam could’ve gone off to the Citadel and he never would’ve had to bathe in the hot blood of an aurochs or sleep in chainmail, Father would’ve left him alone and forgotten about him.

            _But then I never would’ve come to the Wall, never would’ve found my brothers, never would’ve made friends…_

Sam watched as Jon danced.

            _OH I’M A MAID AND I’M PURE AND FAIR!_

_I’LL NEVER DANCE WITH A HAIRY BEAR!_

_A BEAR! A BEAR!_

_I’LL NEVER DANCE WITH A HAIRY BEAR!_

The hate rose like bile, as hot and searing as the bile that had scorched his throat when the Qartheen warlocks made him bathe in blood. _My father will never call me back._

_My brother has probably forgotten me._

_I CALLED FOR A KNIGHT BUT YOU’RE A BEAR!_

_A BEAR, A BEAR!_

_ALL BLACK AND BROWN AND COVERED WITH HAIR!_

Sam shoved himself up from the table, hard enough to make the trenchers shake and the cutlery rattle. Grenn was snoring and Pyp was dancing with a girl whose eyes were full of promise and Jon was twirling Lord Umber’s daughter around the floor and he couldn’t take it anymore. He shoved up and away and stormed outside, snatching two tankards of ale off the tray of a passing servant. He stormed up and out and away, shoving past drunken men-at-arms through wide doors and into a hallway, looking away as he passed a man and a woman coupling against a wall, almost stumbled over two dogs fighting over a bone. He barreled on until he came to a final door, shoved it open with his shoulder, gasped as the cool night air smacked him in the face. He staggered into the yard, let the door slam on the lovers’ moans, and quaffed one tankard of ale right there and then, all in one gulp. He tossed the tankard aside and found a handy wall and slumped against it, sliding down onto the cold hard ground, the better to glare at the stars and sip the other tankard, slow and steady this time.

            “You’re taking this better than I did.”

            Sam looked up, squinting his eyes until the face of the man speaking to him came into focus. “Jon?”

            Jon sighed as he slumped against Sam’s wall and slid down onto the ground beside him, a skin of what smelled like wine in his hand. Jon took a long pull, offered it to Sam.

            Sam lifted his tankard in reply.

            Jon laughed. “You know that that’s empty, right, Sam?”

            Sam looked at his tankard and frowned. “So it is. I hadn’t noticed.”

            Jon laughed once more, knocked the tankard from Sam’s hand and tossed the wineskin onto Sam’s chest. A bit of the wine squirted out, trickling a blood red stain down Sam’s doublet. “Drink, Sam,” Jon said, “I snatched it for you.”

            Sam took up the skin and squirted a stream of wine into his mouth. He rolled it around on his tongue, swallowed, sighed. “What’s a Dornish red doing all the way up here?”

            Jon shrugged. “Only the Gods and the Greatjon know, and the Greatjon isn’t telling. Something to do with the Rebellion, no doubt.”

            They sat in silence, passing the skin back and forth. Inside, the roar of the feast boomed and pulsed, while across the yard, a guard leaned on a spear and tapped his foot in time with the music. Far beyond the curtain wall that surrounded Last Hearth, a high keening howl rose, and Sam knew in his bones that it had something to do with Ghost.

            _At least someone’s enjoying themselves…_

“What did you mean,” Sam said, not sure where the words came from, “that I was handling things better than you?”

            Jon sighed, took a deep gulp of wine. “Not that long ago, the King came North.”

            “I heard about that.”

            “I imagine. The King came, and my father threw a great feast, ten times the size of this one, in his honor. Father and Lady Stark and all my brothers and sisters got to sit with the high lords and the princelings, far beyond even those who sat above the salt, and you know where I was?”

            Sam could imagine. A highborn bastard was still a bastard, Lady Stark was a Tully, and the Tullys were well known for being prickly. “Outside?”

            Jon laughed. “Oh, worse: Down amongst the squires. No one was watching us, so while Robb and Sansa and Arya were left to sip watered wine, I was down in the bowels of the great hall, pouring unwatered ale down my throat because no one was like to stop me.” He paused, grimaced, and Sam felt the pain in the twist of his best friend’s mouth. “My uncle came to keep me company, but I was drunk as a septon and took his kindness and flung it back in his face, acting the worst kind of right old prick.”

            “Surely not as bad as Ser Alliser,” Sam offered.

            Jon scoffed. “Oh, far worse than that, but no matter. In the end, I stormed outside, still pissed. I stormed over to the armory, found a practice sword, and set to trying to batter a practice dummy to pieces through sheer force of drunken will.”

            Sam tried to conjure the image but could not. “What calmed you down?”

            “Tyrion Lannister, oddly enough.”

            That caught Sam by surprise. “The Imp?”

            “The very same. He’s wiser than he appears.”

            “Oh…what did he say?”

            “Many things, but the most important was to remind me that I was a bastard, and that it did no one any benefit to pretend that I was not.”

            Sam sagged. “And I’m a craven.”

            Jon took a final swig from the wineskin and lurched to his feet, bending down to offer Sam his hand. “Only if you stay out here.”

            Sam looked at the hand with suspicion. “I won’t dance.”

            “Great! Want to trade places?”

            Sam tore his gaze from the hand. _The brother I always wanted, the brother I’ll never have…_ “Never. I never wanted to be a lord.”

            “Then we have something in common.”

            “But you’ll be one.”

            “When pigs fly. Now, come on, Pyp is worried sick about you, let’s get in there before he comes and finds us.”

            _Pyp is worried…Grenn would be, too, if he hadn’t drunk himself to sleep on the third tankard…_

_I do have brothers…_

_The brothers I always wanted…_

Sam took Jon’s hand, let Jon pull him up. They swayed for a moment, laughing together.

            “I always wanted a best friend,” Sam confessed.

            Jon smiled. “And you still have one. I’ll be back, you know. Once my brother’s done with me, I’ll be back. I’ll swear my vows, and we’ll wear the black and walk the Wall until we die.”

            _No,_ Sam thought, _we won’t. Your place was never with us cripples, bastards, and broken things on top of the world. Your brother has called you home, and you’ll march to war and there will always be one more thing and you’ll never be a brother of the Night’s Watch._

But somehow, in a way that Sam could not quite express, he knew, deep in his bones, that Jon was, indeed, his best friend.

            And a best friend was all Sam had ever really wanted.

            “Care to lay a wager on it?” Sam said, channeling Pyp.

            Jon rolled his eyes. “Only if you come back to the hall.”

            Sam shook his friend’s hand.

            “Done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, fun fact, I almost forgot to post today, because, for reasons known only to God and His Saints, I was convinced that I had posted this chapter already. I think I dreamed about posting it or something, leaving me to frown at my phone, wondering where the usual post-update flood of notifications were, and then I checked the story and said, Oh, fuck, I should probably post it for real this time. 
> 
> And here we are! 
> 
> Couple things to talk about. First, the chapter. Full disclosure: Sam is, if not my favorite character, easily in the top five. He's even one of the rare characters that I like both the book and show versions of equally, and his relationship with Gilly is the best and it's my only ride-or-die GoT ship and so of course I was going to make Sam a POV character. Sam is also one of the first places where we'll be seeing the ripple effect of Jon's going back to Winterfell. Sam didn't really come into his own, didn't really grow up, until he was separated from Jon in the latter half of Clash of Kings and he had to start dealing with crises without his best friend and protector. This time, Sam will have to deal with shit more-or-less on his own right from the start.
> 
> Should be fun.
> 
> Second thing, a couple of responses to comments/reviews. One of you made the case that Robb's name is just Robb, not Robert, to which I say, whatever, it's my fanfic, I like it better that way. If that's a departure from canon too far for you, sorry, but this story's master document is already past the forty-thousand-word mark and I don't feel like going back to change that. It's hard enough remembering to shove Ghost and Grey Wind into scenes; no wonder the show stopped bothering after a certain point. Ghost, in particular, is easy to forget, what with that absolute silence thing. Thanks for that, Martin. 
> 
> Another of you asked that I try and have them not get screwed over by the Freys, to which I say, You'll just have to wait and see, eh? Even early in his story arc, both in the books and in the show, Jon's a bit more genre savvy than Robb, so that should be interesting to see play out.
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, we pop down to see what the Lannisters are up to. Stay tuned!


	6. Kevan

LORD TYWIN LANNISTER SIGHED AND THREW THE RAVEN SCROLL DOWN UPON THE TABLE. “So,” Tywin said, leaning back in his borrowed chair and taking up his cup of heavily watered wine, “that’s done.”

            Kevan watched his brother for a moment, sipping his own watered wine. If anyone could be said to know the Lord of Casterly Rock, it was Ser Kevan Lannister, but even Kevan couldn’t quite puzzle out the meaning of the expression on his older brother’s face. “And what,” he said, choosing his words with care, “is done?”

            Tywin gestured at the scroll. “Read it for yourself.”

            Kevan reached out, took the scroll, unrolled it, tilted it to catch the light through the window, trying not frown at how dark and cramped the solar felt. Silverhill was no minor town, and its castle was nothing to scoff at, but Lord Serrett’s seat still left much to be desired, especially Lord Serrett’s solar, which needed candlelight even in the middle of the day. _Or mayhaps I’ve just been spoiled by the Rock._ In the end, Kevan found his light, and frowned. “This is Cersei’s hand.”

            Tywin grunted. “So it is.”

            Kevan tried not to linger on that. By rights, a message from the Red Keep, especially one bearing the Royal Seal, should’ve been written and sent by Grand Maester Pycelle, or at least one of the old fool’s underlings, but no matter. Kevan bent to the message and read, frowned some more, and read it again. “Lord Stark is arrested,” Kevan said, tossing the scroll back onto the table and leaning back in his chair, “his household is slaughtered, and his eldest daughter is held hostage.”

            Tywin nodded. “Just so. And what else?”

            Kevan had read the message twice, he did not need to read it again. “She commands you to bring your armies to King’s Landing and take up your duties as Hand of the King.”

            “ _Commands me._ ” Tywin’s mouth twisted into what could have been a smile, and when he spoke again, his words were in a tone that was somewhere in the vicinity of _mocking._ “And I suppose Lord Tully will just smile and wave as I march an army across his lands, while the river lords will cheer our passage from the smoky ruins left by Clegane.”

            “Cersei says that she’s commanded Riverrun to disband their armies and give you free passage.”

            “My daughter shouldn’t be _commanding_ anything.”

            Kevan pointed at the message. “She signs herself as Queen Regent.”

            Tywin scoffed. Kevan’s brother had always been good at scoffing. “ _Queen Regent._ Regents are chosen by the Small Council; they do not appoint themselves.”

            Kevan could only shrug and run a hand through hair that he himself admitted was nothing more than grey. “No doubt she took the position at the behest of His Grace.”

            “ _Indeed._ ” Tywin shoved back his chair in a chorus of groaning wood, stood, strode over to the window, his wine cup forgotten on the table. Kevan watched as his brother settled himself there, rolling back and forth from heel-to-toes-to-heel, hands clasped behind his back, the fingers of one hand opening and closing around the other. _Seven help us,_ Kevan thought, watching his brother, _this can’t be good._ “Did you see what else she wrote?”

            Kevan wracked his brain, trying to puzzle out what his brother had seen in Cersei’s small, precise letters. “She said…” He paused, considered the message once more. “She said…she said that she has commanded all the other Lords Paramount to come to King’s Landing to pay homage to Joffrey.”

            That earned another of Tywin’s signature scoffs. _My brother is scoffing quite a bit of late._ Just the other day, Jaime had written from the Golden Tooth, bragging about his victory in a small tourney held, _or so Jamie claimed,_ to entertain the host gathered there. Kevan was still surprised that they hadn’t heard that scoff in Volantis. “Have I taught my children nothing, Kevan?”

            Kevan grimaced. He was on precarious ground, and he knew it. The truth was, Tywin _had_ taught his children something, many things, in fact, but only one had _learned._ Alas, the child who had learned was Tyrion, and Kevan had never known his brother to take even vague praise of Tyrion well. _If I were made of sterner stuff, I would follow in our sister’s footsteps, and tell him so._ Kevan was not, though; Genna may have been unmoved by a half-years’ worth of chilly silence, but Kevan was not his sister. “Cersei does seem to have moved with admirable speed,” Kevan offered.

            The words bounced off his brother’s back like wind bounced off the mountains of Dorne. “My daughter has moved like a blunt cleaver,” Tywin said, still glaring out the window. “What need was there to slaughter the entire household? Last we heard, Stark had but fifty men-at-arms in the city, but no, my daughter felt the need to be brutal, and now the younger Stark girl has slipped our grasp, no doubt in the chaos that always follows drawn swords.”

            Kevan frowned, took up the message again. “She doesn’t say anything about-“

            “She doesn’t say that she has the girl, either,” Tywin cut in. “She crows about the slaughter of men-at-arms taken unawares, about Lord Stark in a dungeon and the elder Stark girl locked in a room, but it’s what my daughter _doesn’t say_ that rings loud in my ears.”

            Kevan took a deep breath and swallowed his pride. “And what doesn’t Cersei say?”

            “She doesn’t say she has the other Stark girl, she doesn’t say she has Lord Renly, she doesn’t even say if she knows anything about Lord Stannis. She seems to think that one lord and one girl is enough to make the realm cower and bend the knee.”

            _Tyrion wouldn’t think that,_ Kevan wanted to say. _Tyrion wouldn’t have bungled things so._ But he wasn’t Genna, so he held his tongue on that score and settled for, “But surely the word of the King carries some weight.”

            Tywin shrugged. “Why should it? The Tullys have had their pride pricked by our raids, the Martells hate us, the Tyrells are forever grasping, the Eyrie is held by a madwoman, and the Starks are not like to take the arrest of their liege lord lying down.”

            “The North cares little and less about who sits the Iron Throne.”

            “True…but they have shown, _repeatedly,_ that they care when it suits them. Cregan Stark declared for the blacks during the Dance of the Dragons for the promise of royal marriages, and Eddard Stark called his banners for love, friendship, and the promise of vengeance. The North can roust itself when suitably motivated, and their liege lord being tossed in a dungeon seems sufficient motivation to me.”

            _It would,_ Kevan thought, but would never dare to say. _You assembled the strength of the West to redress the arrest of Tyrion, and you hate Tyrion._ “True, still…what shall we do?”

            Tywin sighed. “Clegane will continue to raid; Jaime claims that the Tully host below the Golden Tooth dwindles every day, as Lord Hoster’s son lets petty lords melt away to defend their lands. We give that a bit more time, and we wait. We need to know which way the late and unlamented King Robert’s brothers will jump, need to see who they will turn to. Dorne will spurn them, as it will spurn us, but the Reach might prove more receptive, and that could tip the scales.”

            Kevan felt his face pull into a grimace. The Reach was rich and plentiful, and commanded enough swords and spears to tip the balance in any war. Kevan would be the first to admit that he had no talent for politics, but he knew how to count spears well enough. “And the North?”

            Another sigh, a tightening of fingers around a hand, clasped and pressed into the small of his brother’s back. “If the North calls its banners and this _Young Wolf_ decides to march, then we move. Jaime smashes the dwindling host beneath the Golden Tooth and races for Riverrun, and we swing around the mountains, march north-by-east. If the Starks arrive to find the riverlands beaten and cowed, they might be willing to negotiate, and even if they’re not, by then we’ll be in position to move against whatever threat may arise, whether it be the northmen, the Vale, or the Baratheon brothers.”

            It was a good strategy. The only variable was Lord Stark’s son and heir, who might be a green and callow boy, but was still a green and callow boy with an army. _He’s still a Stark,_ Kevan thought, _and it never pays to underestimate a Stark._ Be that as it may, it was still a good strategy, a good plan, so Kevan nodded, finished his watered wine, set aside the cup, rose, bowed, and strode out of Lord Serrett’s solar to give the necessary orders.

            Lord Tywin Lannister had not given any verbal orders, of course, but Ser Kevan Lannister knew his brother’s commands when he heard them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, sorry about the delay. It's Memorial Day here in the US, and when you've got a kid, like I do, holidays can get...well...busy. God only knows how I'll manage next year, when I'll have, God willing, not a kid, but kids. Wish me luck!
> 
> Anyhoo, like I said, sorry about the delay. Today's chapter is largely about housekeeping, tying my altered narrative into the broader, still mostly-canon-compliant narrative. Like I said before, I have no desire to rewrite chapters GRRM already wrote, especially when the changes rippling out from our point of divergence are still mostly confined to north. That's part of the reason we won't see much of Daenerys for a while; taking Jon off the Wall wouldn't change a damn thing in Essos at least into Feast for Crows/Dance with Dragons territory. I also want to be a bit more...shall we say...consistent with the passage of time than either GRRM or the TV show ever was. Martin took advantage of a nice little high fantasy cheat, in that he never bothered to solidify precisely how the calendar worked; that allowed him to play fact-and-loose with time, far worse than the show ever did. 
> 
> I'm the kind of dweeb who obsessed over such things, though, so we're going to try to keep track of the passage of time a bit more stringently. Because, like Zuko and Jon, I seem to delight in making life harder for myself. *shrugs*
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, Robb tries to explain things to Rickon. Stay tuned!


	7. Robb

HE SHIFTED IN HIS CHAIR, RAN HIS HANDS THROUGH HIS HAIR, AND SIGHED. “So,” he said, biting back the urge to wince at how lost and uncomfortable he sounded, “do you understand what I’m saying?”

            Across from him, Rickon didn’t look up. The boy kept his gaze firmly locked on Shaggydog, brow furrowed as if petting the direwolf was the most important task in the world, the only thing that could _possibly_ interest him. “You’re going away.”

            Robb could only nod, somehow resisting the urge to spread his hands. _Patience,_ he reminded himself, _he’s only a child._ Bran had grasped what Robb was trying to tell him almost immediately, but Bran was eleven while Rickon was only six. There were years of lessons from Maester Luwin, thousands of words of wisdom from Mother and Father, and a life shattering tragedy laying between the two boys. _All children are different,_ Mother had told him, he didn’t know how many times, so Robb took a deep breath and slowly, carefully, let it out. “Unless something changes, yes.”

            Rickon’s hand paused, halfway up Shaggydog’s belly. Robb did his best to ignore the slight tremble that rippled up and down his little brother’s body before Rickon resumed his belly rubs. “Like what?”

            _Like, Father is released,_ Robb wanted to say. _Like, Sansa and Arya are returned to us. Like, Joffrey and the Queen drop this ludicrous demand that I present myself in King’s Landing, alone and with no assurances or negotiations. Like, we all blink and it turns out that the past nine months have been nothing more than a horrid dream._ But Robb wasn’t sure how much of that Rickon would understand. _Gods, I’m not sure how much of it I understand myself._ So, he settled for, “Like…anything, really. I’ll settle for just about anything.” That wasn’t _quite_ a lie, which didn’t make it taste any better in his mouth.

            Silence fell on them, as Robb stared at his hands, which seemed to be the only way to stop his fidgeting. The shutters were open on the windows, letting in just enough sunlight to make the room look like a place someone might want to live. When Robb had entered, all the shutters had been closed tight, so that his little brother was alone, shrouded in darkness, endlessly rubbing his direwolf’s belly. That had set alarms ringing in Robb’s ears, but he hadn’t known what to do about it, wasn’t even sure what it could mean, _I never was good with the little ones, Jon would know what to do, Jon and Sansa,_ so he had stomped into the room and thrown open the shutters and told Rickon that they needed to talk.

            Robb had done most of the talking, had even paced at one point, but his little brother had remained on his bed, petting his direwolf.

            In the end, it was Rickon who shattered the silence. “A lot of men have come here.”

            That was true. The ravens had been flying so thick that Robb was surprised they hadn’t blotted out the sun. The days after sending out the call had been the worst of Robb’s young life, endless grinding hours and little sleep, no matter how Maester Luwin had begged him to rest. Even Theon had counseled Robb to sleep, and Robb had tried, but he had always failed.

            But then the responses came, and not long after the soldiers. They had poured in, continued to pour in, first a trickle, and now a flood. The Winter Town was full to bursting, the growing camp outside the curtain wall sprouted more banners every day, and Theon had told him that the madame of the brothel in the Winter Town was toasting Robb’s health before and after every meal. There were times when Robb felt that all he did was stand in the yard, receiving homage from his vassal lords, vassal lords Robb then spent countless hours in Father’s solar with, vassal lords Robb had to feast near every night. _And always a different one beside me at the head of the table, while the definition of **above the salt** grows wider with each passing day._

_Father was right. War is a tedious business._

“Yes,” Robb admitted, “a lot of men, indeed.”

            “And Jon’s coming, too?”

            Robb finally allowed himself to smile, and this time, it didn’t feel forced. “Yes.” He had had the raven just two days before, and every time he thought of it, he wanted to jump up and dance with glee. _At least, if nothing else, all of this has seen **that** mistake corrected. _“He should be here any day now, with the Smalljon and the first part of Lord Umber’s levy.”

            Rickon was nodding, and either Robb was seeing what wasn’t there, or just a little bit of life had leaked back into the boy’s face. “That’s good. I didn’t like it when Father sent him away.”

            Robb worked hard to keep the smile on his face. “Neither did I, but that’s done now. He’ll be here, you can see him again, and when I go south, he’ll be there to watch my back.”

            Rickon was still nodding. Robb couldn’t help but feel that that wasn’t a good thing, but it was the most life anyone had seen out of Rickon since Mother had gone south, so Robb decided to take the victory. “Bran will be happy, too.”

            “I should imagine so.”

            A pause, and the nodding stopped. “Mother will be upset.”

            _Mother will be furious, but what’s done is done, and she can just live with it._ The words in Robb’s head sounded more confident than he felt, but he knew, deep down in his heart of hearts, that he was right, and his parents had been wrong. Jon was a Stark, and he belonged with his family. _He never should’ve been sent away._ “A little, but she’ll come around.”

            Rickon looked dubious. “If you say so.”

            Robb couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, we shall see! In fact-“

            He was cut off by the knock at the door. Robb sighed, stood, adjusted his sword and ran his hands down his doublet. _One must always look a lord,_ Father was always saying, _especially when one doesn’t feel it._ “Come in.”

            The door opened to reveal one of the steward’s boys. The boy gave a quick bow and said, in a small, thin voice, “M’lord, apologies, but the Umber banner’s been seen on the road. Master said you’d want to know right quick.”

            Robb’s heart jumped into his throat. _Finally._ It would be good to no longer be the only grown Stark in Winterfell. “Have they been met?”

            “Yes, m’lord,” the boy said, eyes still firmly locked on Robb’s boots. “Ser Rodrik sent a man out soon as they was seen, m’lord.”

            Robb sighed. “Look up, lad.”

            “…m’lord?”

            “I said, look up, I won’t bite you.”

            The boy gulped, paused, and finally looked up, though Robb didn’t miss that the boy’s gaze made it no higher than Robb’s chest. _Another of the new ones._ Vayon Poole had taken so many of the best, most experienced servants to King’s Landing. Robb prayed that all were well. _Surely, they must be. What need could there be to put servants to the sword?_ Robb pushed the thought away, reached into his purse, and tossed the boy a silver stag.

            For all that the boy wasn’t really looking, he still caught it, and when he saw what Robb had tossed him, his eyes went wide as saucers. “I…I mean… _m’lord…_ ”

            Robb reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. “This is the best news I’ve had since my brother woke up. Take it, enjoy it, try not to spend it all in one place.”

            The boy shook his head, made the coin disappear. “I won’t, m’lord. Thank you, m’lord.”

            Robb waved him towards the door. “Go on then, be about your duties.”

            The boy bowed his way out the door with what felt like a hundred _m’lords,_ and when he was gone, Robb turned back to Rickon. “Well, that’ll be Jon. Want to come with me? He’ll be mighty pleased to see you.”

            For a moment, Robb thought he might have gotten through to his brother, might have finally found the key that would release the boy from the sadness that enveloped him, the sadness that was shot through with the occasional burst of sudden, savage wildness.

            But it was not to be. Rickon sighed, shook his head, and said, “Later.”

            Robb didn’t know what to do, so he bowed, said, “If that’s what you want,” and left, closing the door softly behind him.

            He pretended that he couldn’t hear Rickon closing the window shutters as he strode down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, here's the thing...my wife gave birth on Tuesday! Yay! On the plus side, she's fine, our brand new son is healthy and hearty, our two-and-a-half-year-old son is...mostly okay with it, the dog keeps giving me really judgmental looks, and I've rediscovered how bad formula smells, though not as bad as formula farts. Parenthood is super fun, you guys.
> 
> Now, you guys almost didn't get this today, but then my wife poked me and was all, "Hey, babe, it's Thursday, I just had a baby, we're finally home, and you said the next chapter was a Robb chapter." So, here you are! Because there's a minus side: I am, just, super tired. Hence, not a big AN today. At present, I'm, like, 90% sure I'll be able to maintain the current posting schedule until the end of the story, which will probably end up being three "books"/"parts." I have a pretty decent sized buffer, but if it looks like I'll have to slow down at some point, I promise to give you a heads up.
> 
> In the meantime...
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, we check in on Arya. Stay tuned!


	8. Arya

SHE WAS STARVING. It was her own fault, in a way. Syrio Forel had told her to stash coins. He had said that it would be a lesson in hiding things. _A good swordsman must be able to misdirect, must be able to deflect, must be able to deceive._ Thus, he had told her to grab a coin whenever she could and hide it, and she had. But she was Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, _Hand of the King,_ and so she had stashed golden dragons and silver stags and ignored or tossed away more copper stars than she could count.

            _At the time._

She could count the copper stars she had shunned _now._ Ever since the man selling meat pies had taken one look at the stag she had offered and laughed, she had been counting the stars. _A street urchin with a stag? Next you know, pigs will be as good as dragons!_ He had laughed and knocked the stag from her hand and turned his back, not even bothering to bite the coin to see if it was real. In an instant, she had realized why. She looked a proper street urchin, covered in dirt and grime, her hair matted, her ragged clothes stained with sweat, which meant that the stag was either stolen or fake, and the latter was far more likely, so why bother? She had dumped out all of the dragons and stags in a dark and deserted alley and been left with a pitifully small pile of stars.

            But the copper stars had run out three days hence, and now she was starving.

            Arya didn’t know what to do. She had never been hungry, much less _starved._ She had assumed that the states were one and the same, but she knew better now. Being hungry meant that it was time to eat; starving was something else. She felt woozy, light-of-head. There was a gnawing pit at her very core, a gnawing pit that she would do anything to plug. That morning, she had been shaken awake by a kindly-looking man who had told her that there was no reason to shiver in the streets wearing rags, _you’re pretty enough, come with me, you’ll eat your fill, and as for the other thing, it’s better than starving, isn’t it?_ There had been a woman standing just over his shoulder, nodding and smiling, _he’s right, you know,_ she’d said, _it’s better than starving._

_Anything is better than starving._

            Arya was only three-and-ten years old, but she knew what they wanted, knew what they would expect her to do. She had jumped to her feet, brandished Needle, told them to _fuck off._ The man had raised his hands and the woman had clucked her tongue, _your funeral,_ Arya couldn’t remember which had said that, her memories seemed fogged, _clouded,_ but they had turned to the girl sleeping right beside Arya and shaken her awake and offered the same deal.

            The girl had taken it without hesitation.

            Arya couldn’t say who the bigger fool was. Once, she would have had a ready answer, but once, she hadn’t been starving.

            And, gods help her, _she had considered it._ In the moment between the offer and when she had drawn Needle, she had thought about it, _really thought about it,_ weighed it in her mind and wondered if a soft bed and a full belly in exchange for _that_ were really so bad, and it shamed her.

She hadn’t taken the deal. She was still Arya Stark of Winterfell, but now two more days had passed, and she was out of copper stars and she was starving. She was starving and she was tired and she was hurt all over from trying to sleep in corners and alleys, so many of Arya’s illusions had been shattered in the weeks since she had run away from Syrio Forel, _what do we say to Death, not today,_ since she had shoved Needle so hard through the stableboy’s belly that the tip had come out his back, _since I saw the life drain from his eyes._ Her life had been turned upside down and she was cold and shivering, she shouldn’t have been, King’s Landing was warmer than anything Arya had ever known and she had no furs, _only rags,_ but she was cold and gaunt and _starving_ and she didn’t know what do to, all she could do was sit down on a handy step, slump back against the wall, wrap her arms around her body and shiver and bite down on the pain and a part of her brain told her she was on the Street of Steel, or, at least, behind a house on the Street of Steel, the whole world rang to the sound of hammers, she vaguely remembered stumbling past broad-shouldered and thick-muscled boys that the corner of her mind called _senior apprentices_ but it didn’t matter, she was cold and shivering and starving and Father was arrested, the riders and the newsreaders on the street corners said so, and people were looking for her, _Her Grace the Queen offers ten gold dragons for knowledge of Arya Stark,_ and she was starving and ten gold dragons of food sounded good and she didn’t know what had become of Sansa and-

            A hand was shaking her. She jerked herself out of whatever her mind was doing and recoiled, hand on the hilt of Needle. “ _Fuck off!”_

The girl, she couldn’t have been more than a few years older than Arya, lurched back, arms spread, hands up, palms out. “Suit yourself,” the girl said, she was thin, plainly dressed, the hems of her skirts ragged and frayed, but her hair clean and tidy, “but you looked hungry and the Master said that, since Emma wants to get married, Mother Sybilla was to look for a new serving girl, and there’s food here.”

            Arya bit her lip and winced. She hadn’t known she was chewing on that lip until the pain hit her. She wondered how often she had made the same discovery in the past few days, tossed the thought aside. _It will not serve._

_Fear cuts deeper than swords._

_What do we say to Death?_

_**Not today.**_

“I can’t cook,” she blurted, she didn’t know where the words came from, but she was glad they came as soon as they left her parched and brutalized lips. “I can sew, though, I can sew and mend, it won’t be pretty, but I can sew and mend and clean and carry.” She had grasped the girl’s arm by now, her fingers were digging in, she released her grib, jerked back. “Sorry,” she muttered, drawing in, wrapping her arms tight around herself, “I’m just…”

            “You’re hungry,” the girl said, nodding, “I know, I was where you are, not so long ago, before Emma found me. Well, come on, then,” she continued, holding out a hand, “we’ll go see Mother Sybilla and see what she thinks. At the very least, you’ll get one good meal.”

            Arya almost fainted at those words. _One good meal._ It wouldn’t solve her problems, a voice said, but it would serve for the nonce, so she took the girl’s hand and followed.

            “My name’s Willow,” the girl said. “What’s yours?”

            Arya couldn’t think, thinking was so hard, _what’s happened to me, where’s the food,_ but then she blurted the first name that came to her mind. “Jeyne,” she said, “my name’s Jeyne. I came south with Lord Stark’s retinue and then something happened and Father told me to run and-“

            The girl named Willow cut her off with a raised palm. “Never mind that, it’ll be our little secret for the nonce. So long as you can mend and sew and do what you’re told, Mother Sybilla will be happy and if she’s happy, Master Mott will be happy, so come with me and we’ll see if we can get you some decent shoes, too.”

            Arya looked down at her boots, noticed for the first time that the sole on the left boot was slowly peeling off.

            _It would be nice to get that fixed,_ she decided, _I didn’t even notice,_ so she tightened her grip on Willow’s hand and thought of nothing beyond shoes and food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There a lot of criticisms of the show that get under my skin. Most of them don't really bear repeating, but one that always particularly irked me was the criticism that popped up around season six, that being that the show was playing fast and loose with the timeline. Now, the show was, but the thing is, that's a facet of the books, too. GRRM is just like the worst at maintaining a coherent timeline. By Storm of Swords, you just kind of have to...take his word that he knows what he's about, and hold on for dear life, doing your best not to think about it too much. This, by the way, is a perfectly valid way to write, particularly with high fantasy. Either you can be Tolkien and construct elaborate dating systems, or you can just mutter something about the seasons passed or some such shit and hope your work is good enough that only the most dopey of nerds will bother to notice. 
> 
> Well, if you've read my work before, you know that I am absolutely that dopey of a nerd. *shrugs* It is what it is. So, I feel compelled to try to fill in some of the blanks that GRRM was able to get away with by playing fast and loose with the passage of time. 
> 
> Take Arya, for example. Martin gives the impression that she's not on the streets all that long, but in Dance with Dragons, Barristan Selmy mentions that enough time passed between his dismissal from the Kingsguard and Ned's execution that he was able to grow a beard long enough that no one recognized him in a city that would've known his face well. That's at least a couple of months there. Now, if I was a normal person, I'd be chill with that, but I'm not a normal person, so here we are, accounting for Arya's months on the streets. Now, Arya's tough, but no one survives on their own alone for long, especially in a place like King's Landing, so she gets offered a place of service, which was how people used to pick up random servants back in the day (entertaining the King and need a gaggle of servants in a hurry? Send the steward to grab a couple dozen from the local orphanage!).
> 
> This also allows me to combine Arya and Gendry's storylines a bit early, because I like their dynamic. Are they going to get together? Maybe? But definitely not until far down the road, like in four-five years of story time. I just like their unique friendship dynamic.
> 
> Oh! And to answer all the questions, my wife and our newborn son are home, our toddler is handling things pretty well, and she thanks you guys for all your well wishes.
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, Jon reaches Winterfell. Stay tuned!


	9. Jon

“SO,” HE SAID, BRINGING HIS HORSE TO A STOP AT THE CREST OF THE FINAL HILL NORTH FROM WINTERFELL, “IT REALLY IS WAR, THEN.”

            “Well,” Smalljon Umber observed as he brought his horse to a stop next to Jon’s, “with that many banners flying, it’s either a war or a wedding, and you don’t need that many swords for a wedding.”

            Jon felt his mouth twisting into something that felt almost like a smile. “Depends on the wedding, I imagine.”

            Smalljon threw back his head and laughed, great big gales of mirth that startled birds from a nearby tree and send chuckles rippling up and down the column. “You have the right of it there, Jon,” the big man said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Father’s always said he could have used some protection the night he and Mother wed.”

            Jon tried not to wince. The Lord and Lady Umber were admirably well matched, with Lady Umber being tall and stout for a woman, able to match her lord husband bellow for bellow, ale for ale, ribald jape for ribald jape. _I may have lost my maidenhead on my wedding night,_ Lady Umber had bragged to all and sundry during the feast the Umbers had thrown Jon the night he’d arrived at Last Hearth, _but by dawn, it was my husband who couldn’t walk!_

 _She rode me to exhaustion!_ Lord Umber had chimed in, pulling his wife down into his lap. _And then the next night, she did it again! I don’t know how I survived that first year!_ The entire hall had burst into cheers and laughter, while Jon smiled and chuckled and exchanged uncomfortable glances with Sam. Jon had been sure the noise would wake the dead, but then he had looked to Grenn and seen that his friend had snored right through it.

            Jon finally laughed at that. It had been the first true laugh in what felt like weeks.

            The memories of the next morning came back in an unwelcome flood. Sam had done nothing to hide his misery, even Pyp had been glum and morose, while Grenn, gods love him, had looked like death warmed over, unable to do more than sink deeper into himself and groan when Pyp made a half-hearted crack about how they should probably lash Grenn to his horse. That had brought laughter, but the laughter was as half-hearted as the jape had been, leaving them all to shift and fidget in awkward silence. Jon had found himself at a complete loss for words. He felt like he should say something important, _something meaningful,_ Pyp and Grenn and Sam were the first true _friends_ he’d ever had, the first friends that he hadn’t been related to, and now they were going back to the Wall and he was going south and he didn’t know if he’d ever see them again and-

            “Are you alright, Jon?”

            Jon gave himself a shake, shoved the memories back down where they couldn’t hurt him. _Kill the boy,_ Aemon had told him. _Kill the boy, and let the man be born._ “Oh,” he said, turning to Smalljon and putting on a brave face, “just lost in thought for a moment. I take it that rider is for us?” he finished, pointing down the road at a rider cantering up the road from Winterfell.

            Smalljon leaned forward in his saddle and squinted. The weather was cool, made almost brisk by a breeze that made the trees whisper and hiss and sent ripples through the grass, but the sun was high in a sky untouched by clouds. “Aye, I imagine so.” He turned back towards the fifty mounted men they had brought with them from Last Hearth, the vanguard of the Umber levy. “Yorick!”

            The captain of the force kicked his horse and trotted forward. Not for the first time, Jon felt himself reflecting upon how the man didn’t look much like a soldier, least not one sworn to House Umber. The Umbers were all big and burly, tall and barrel-chested, but Yorick was thin and spindly, with a pronounced apple in his throat and dark hair shot through with grey that made him look far older than his five-and-thirty years. “Yes, m’lord?” the man said, dipping his head in a shallow bow.

            Smalljon pointed at the rider from Winterfell. “Go meet that man, tell him that Lord Umber’s heir and Lord Robert’s brother have arrived.”

            Yorick dipped his head, said, “At once, m’lord,” gave his horse a kick and cantered off, leaving Jon and Smalljon atop their hill, alone except for the standard bearer gripping tight to the Umber banner, the roaring giant fluttering in the breeze.

            “You think the rumors your lord father told me are true?” Jon asked, eyes fixed on Winterfell, on the towers bedecked with grey direwolves and a half-dozen other banners.

            Smalljon sighed. “About your lord father?”

            “Aye.”

            Smalljon leaned over in his saddle and spat. “I can’t imagine why else we’d be here. No doubt we passed the raven on the road.”

            Jon nodded. “Aye, no doubt.”

            Smalljon squinted at the castle walls once more, scanning the banners. “Do you see any flayed men?”

            Jon looked, shook his head. “No. It seems that Lord Bolton hasn’t arrived yet. No mermen, either, so no Manderlys.” He scanned the walls again, saw a black battle-axe, a brown bull-moose, and a mailed fist. “It appears Lord Cerwyn, Lord Hornwood, and Lord Glover are here, though, or senior representatives, at least.” Jon bit down on a grimace, tried to keep his voice steady and cool. He knew damn well why the Smalljon was asking who had arrived; Lord Umber had bent Jon’s ear hard, _at length,_ about why His Lordship should be given the supreme command, or at the very least command of the van, waxing eloquent about how the Umbers would bring the fiercest fighters, had been sworn to Winterfell longer than almost anyone else, and hadn’t the Greatjon himself performed feats of bravery and honor during Robert’s Rebellion, so _surely, at the very least,_ the Umbers should have places of honor in the line of battle, should ride at the front of the line of march, _or ahead of the Hornwoods and the Cerwyns, at the least,_ had gone on and on and _on_ until Jon was cursing himself for not listening to Sam’s warnings.

            Jon watched as Yorick and the rider finished their conversation and started trotting up the hill to meet them.

            _I hope you’re ready, Robb._

_I hope you know what you’re doing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, you guys, that was close. Today has just been an insane day. I was snowed under at work, and even when I was home, there was just a shit-ton of crap to do. Man, it's almost like I have two kids or something, huh?
> 
> Be that as it may, I got the chapter up. I really didn't want to start some bullshit posting slide when I'm, like, a good fifteen-some-odd chapters ahead of you guys, and thus really have no excuse. So, before I headed up to bed tonight, I wanted to get this chapter up and presented for your perusal. I'm still floored by the response this story has gotten; you have guys have been legit. Yes, all of you, even the nitpicky nerds. 
> 
> ...said the nitpicky nerd...
> 
> Anyhoo, it's late here in Texas, and I need to take the dog out and close up the house for the night. Before I go, two things. One, you should all thank my wife; before she went to bed, she legit said, "Don't come up until you've posted today's chapter." Two, I fucking love fanart. If you want to make some, go for it, though all I can promise you right now is praise and gratitude, so don't use the expensive pencils. 
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, we pop back down to King's Landing to check in on Sansa. Stay tuned!


	10. Sansa

SHE WAS SURE SHE HAD DONE THE RIGHT THING. She hadn’t _meant_ to do anything, it was just that she was trying to focus on her needlework and Septa Mordane had clucked her tongue and said _your needlework is normally so perfect, focus, girl,_ and the Princess Myrcella had asked her what was wrong, and Sansa had answered, _because I’m leaving soon,_ and the Princess’s eyes had welled up with tears and the Princess had asked _why_ and Sansa had said _because Father says I have to leave_ and then she was standing before the Queen and the Queen had demanded the truth and Sansa had answered.

            To lie to the Queen was treason, right? Sansa had only told the truth when the Queen had demanded it, had only told as much of the truth as she knew, and that wasn’t wrong.

            Right?

            _Right?_

Sansa stood, turned her back on the fireplace, the fireplace with no fire. It was a lovely room, with fresh rushes and scented candles burning in the sconces, but even so, the fireplace was blackened with years of soot no servant could scrub off. She stood and turned her back on the dead fireplace, turned her back on that baked in blackness that made her mind wander to dark places, she couldn’t take it, she had to stand and walk away, she was _brooding_ and ladies didn’t brood _and she was a lady, the Lady of Winterfell, gods know no one will ever say that about Arya,_ but then her mind was off like a flash and no one would say what had happened to Arya, no one would tell her about Septa Mordane and they had grabbed Jeyne and dragged her out as Sansa’s oldest and best friend begged and pleaded, the redcloaks deaf to Sansa’s cries, _she’s good, she hasn’t done anything wrong,_ the last thing she saw the short and slender frame of Lord Baelish, Lord Baelish who had spoken to Jeyne but whose eyes had never left Sansa’s, right up until the moment that the door slammed in Sansa’s face and she was alone.

            Sansa was alone after that. She always had an escort, but she was always alone, somehow. She left her room, of course, the new room the Queen had taken her to after the Queen had demanded _the truth,_ the truth Sansa had given, because the Queen was good and beautiful and it was treason to lie to a Queen, so Mother and Father had always taught her. Sansa had been taken to meals and her room was always clean and fresh when she returned, her things had been brought to her, her old dresses and new dresses, _special gifts of Her Grace,_ the servants said before they fled, but no one would answer her questions. She asked after Father and Jeyne and Arya and Septa Mordane and all the others, she no longer learned her needlework from Septa Mordane, she took her lessons with the Princess and the Princess’s septa but no one would tell her about Septa Mordane _and she was so lost and confused and-_

            She took a deep breath, let it out, and threw open the shutters.

            The Red Keep spread out before her, the Red Keep and beyond its blood red walls King’s Landing. It smelled awful. _Why did I never notice before?_ She raised her eyes to the heavens and asked the gods for help, the old gods, _Father’s gods,_ just a few days before she had asked to be allowed to pray and a septa Sansa didn’t know had come and escorted her the Red Keep’s sept, _but not alone, the redcloaks trailed behind us,_ even the septa had had a Lannister look, but she hadn’t cared, she would’ve raced to the sept but Mother’s words rang in her ears, _a proper lady never hurries, it would be unseemly,_ she had walked slow and steady, her head held high, ignoring the snickers and the whispers, and then she was in the sept and she had knelt and prayed and lit candles before each of the Seven in turn, even the Stranger, but she had heard nothing and felt nothing. The Seven had turned their backs on the traitor’s daughter and now she didn’t know what to do, she was too frightened to ask to be taken to the godswood and so here she was, standing at the window, lost and confused and _alone._

She took another breath, slowly let it out. _Calm yourself. You’re a lady, not a frightened girl, you’re going to be a queen someday, as beautiful and radiant as the Queen herself, and you’ll give your blessed Joffrey beautiful healthy babies and all of this business with Father will be sorted out, it’s all just a misunderstanding and everything will be fine and the Seven will speak to you again, as they always did, you just have to keep going to the sept and praying and lighting candles and-_

She gave herself a shake. _This will not serve._ There was nothing to worry about. The songs were full of dutiful lords and brave knights thrown into dank dungeons, dungeons like the ones the whispers said Father was rotting in even now, but she ignored those whispers. It couldn’t be true. When good people were thrown in dungeons, it was always by bad men, _by monsters,_ and Father was a good man, he had just been misled by bad counsel and the late King’s wicked brothers, _that’s how it always was in the songs_ , and her beloved Joffrey and Her Grace the Queen were good people, they had to be, _they had to be._

_Father promised me to them, and Father would never promise me to a pack of monsters._

She blinked, told herself the tears were due to staring into the sun too long. She slammed the shutters closed, turned her back on the window, went back to her chair by the cold and silent hearth.

            _Father would never promise me to monsters, and if they’re not monsters, they’re good, and this is all just a horrid misunderstanding._

She buried her face in her hands and tried not to cry.

            _Right…?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the single most infuriating fan wars spiraling out of Game of Thrones - both the show and the books - was the question of who was better, Sansa or Arya. I hated that question from the beginning, because, you know what? They both rock, just in their own ways. Sansa just had the misfortune of being a stereotypical teenage girl, and we, as a society, as a culture, love nothing more than shitting on teenage girls. 
> 
> Because that's the thing, isn't it? In the books, she's all of twelve/thirteen when through the third book (here, she's fifteen/sixteen, but still just a kid, at the end of the day). She believed everything her parents told her, internalized her mother's expectations and hopes and found that she liked embodying the ideal of a proper lady, and when her father promised her to a handsome prince, she trusted that said prince was a good person, and shame on her for trusting her parents, I guess.
> 
> We all have stories like that. Mine center around my student loans; my step-dad told me to trust him, that he knew what he was doing, and I, being eighteen and old enough to guess how little I knew, listened to my airline pilot step-dad and believed him. Turns out, he's a dipshit idiot and now I'm ducking phone calls. 
> 
> But that's a story for another day.
> 
> Point is, I like Sansa, always have, and that's the way it is.
> 
> Anyways, couple points. You should all once again shower my wife with praise; she hounded me to post tonight. None of this would be happening without her. Also, I saw a bunch more comments about my saying Robb's actual, full name is Robert, and, well...like I said, I'm committed, so that's the way it's going to be. *shrugs* Plus, come on, that's literally the smallest change I'm going to make; a hundred chapters from now, you guys will have forgotten all about it.
> 
> Also, a bunch of you are commenting on AO3, and I will get around to responding. I promise.
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, it's back to Winterfell, as Robb watches his brother ride in through the gate. Stay tuned!


	11. Robb

ALL OF HIS DOUBTS MELTED AWAY THE MOMENT HIS BROTHER EMERGED THROUGH THE GATE AND RODE INTO THE YARD.

            Robb had had so many doubts, so many worries, so many dark thoughts that stalked his steps and slithered through his dreams. He doubted whether he should have called the banners, doubted whether he should lead the army, doubted even which high lords he put where. He doubted his abilities, doubted his resolve, doubted everyone and everything and himself most of all. He kept his face stern and his hand on the hilt of his sword and played the lord just like Father had taught him and nobody seemed to notice how hollow and frightened he felt. He was the worst kind of imposter, _surely,_ they could see it, and then it would feel like his doubts and fears would consume him and only a ride through the hills that rippled out from Winterfell could keep him from pulling his hair out and screaming. Sometimes he made it all the way to the wolfswood before he felt calm again, before he felt ready to ride for home and face his doubts once more.

            Through it all, there had been only one decision he felt sure of, one thing he had not doubted, and now his brother was cantering into the yard, Smalljon Umber and a handful of Umber men riding in behind him, and Robb forgot all about his decision to stand tall and still like the lord Father needed him to be.

            **_“Jon!”_** he bellowed, his face feeling like it was going to split in two from his smile, his arms spreading wide as he strode towards his brother.

            **_“Robb!”_** came the reply, and he watched, afraid to believe, as Jon vaulted off his horse and came to meet him, his face lit up in a way Robb hadn’t seen in far too long. They met halfway, embracing as only brothers could, arms tight, hands pounding on each other’s backs. Finally, they pulled apart, held each other at arm’s length. Robb saw tears in his brother’s eyes, wondered if Jon saw any in his own, and decided he didn’t care.

            _At the very least,_ he knew, _I’ve done one thing right._

            “You look good,” Jon said. “Lordship suits you. I always knew it would.”

            Robb laughed. “At least one of us believed in me.” They laughed together this time, embraced once more, before pushing each other away, the better to wipe away happy ears in such a way that they would never have to admit to having tears in the first place.

            Jon gave him a light punch to the arm. “None of that, now. You’re supposed to be the confidant one, remember?”

            “This is news to me! I thought I was supposed to be the lumbering oaf.”

            “Well, so did I,” Jon admitted, before jerking a thumb back at Smalljon, “until I met this sodding fool back here.” Jon looked to the Umber heir. “No offense, my lord.”

            Smalljon threw his head back and roared his laughter. “None taken, Jon! We Umbers may not be wise or clever, but no one can beat us at lumbering oafdom!”

            Robb laughed, free and easy. It felt so bloody _good_ to laugh. “Be that as it may,” he said, turning to Smalljon and his party, “apologies for my lack of decorum.” He threw an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Excitement overtook me.”

            Smalljon chuckled as he dismounted, hitting the ground with a _thump._ “As my father would say, _Fuck decorum,_ and besides, I have brothers, too. I can wait a moment.”

            Robb bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord. Now, Jon,” he said, turning back to his brother, “before we go much further, I just want to say that I’m sorry for calling you back. I know you had your heart set on the Watch.” Robb suspected that Jon had had his heart set more on getting away from Mother than anything else, but Robb felt the need to say the words.

            To Robb’s relief, Jon waved the apology aside. “No, Robb, you did the right thing.”

            Robb smiled. _It’s so nice to hear someone say that._ “I’m glad you think so.”

            Jon shrugged. “Well, I mean, I was a bit cross at first, and a bit glum. Your raven caught me not a moment too soon; they were about to open the gate so I could ride out and say my vows before a heart tree. To come so close, and then to have it snatched away…” Jon shook his head, looked around the yard, looked up at the banners hanging from the walls and towers. “But now that I see all of this…” Jon sighed, turned back to Robb, his eyes dark with worry. “It’s true, isn’t it? The rumors we heard on the road, the raven scroll Lord Umber showed me in his solar...”

            Robb felt his heart sink into his boots as the smile died on his face. “Aye, Jon, it’s true. Father’s been arrested, Sansa is held hostage, and Joffrey, the sniveling little cunt, is our new king, and commands me to go to King’s Landing to bend the knee.”

            Robb watched as doubt and fear rippled across Jon’s face, only to be replaced with the same white-hot fury Robb had been living with every day since the ravens had come. “You’re not going, then?” Jon asked.

            Robb spread his arms. “Not alone, I’m not; I may not be the cleverest Stark to mount a horse, but I’m not fool enough to do _that_.”

            “Good,” Jon said, before his brow furrowed with confusion. “Wait… _Sansa_ is held hostage? What about Arya? And where the hell is Lady Stark?”

            Robb gave his brother’s shoulder a squeeze, let him go. “We have much to discuss, Jon. Head for Father’s solar, pour yourself some ale, put your feet up by the fire. I need to speak with Smalljon, deal with a few things, and then we’ll talk.”

            Jon nodded, looked back at the column. “My things…”

            “Don’t worry, I’ll have them sent to your room.”

            “My room’s still there?” Jon asked, surprised. “I felt sure that Lady Stark would’ve turned it into a storeroom or some such by now.”

            Robb tried not to grimace; he loved his mother, but not so much to be blind to her thinly veiled… _dislike…_ of Jon. That Mother _hadn’t_ done something like that to Jon’s old room was down to nothing more than the simple fact that too much had happened, and she had been too busy. “Well,” he said, to dispel the looming darkness lurking down that road as much as anything else, “Mother did no such thing. Go on, off with you, I have _Lordly Things_ to do, you need a rest, and be sure you stop by Bran’s room, the boy has been hounding me about you ever since I told him you were coming back.”

            Jon’s face went slack. “ _Bran,_ ” he whispered, and then he was off, nearly knocking over no less than three people as he ran for the central keep.

            Robb took a deep breath, slowly let it out, did nothing to fight the smile.

            _Yes, I’ve done one good thing, at least._

            He thought about calling after Jon, shouting out to tell his brother to check on Rickon, too, but the words died in his throat. Jon would check on Rickon no matter what Robb said.

            Jon had always looked after them all, and always would.

_It feels good to no longer be alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like, not much of an AN today. For one thing, it's late (and once again, you guys owe your biweekly crack to my wife giving me a nudge to remember to post). For another, it's just...
> 
> It's been a really shitty week, you guys. Like, just, the worst. So, I'm tired, and I'm not really in a good headspace (I never am around Father's Day; not having a father will do that to you), so I'm going to give you the brotherly reunion that really should have been canon, and ask that you guys save the nitpicky comments for, like, Monday's update. I'd really appreciate that. Nitpick the shit out of me on Monday, but today? Be chill, if you don't mind. Let the whole Robb/Robert thing go for a day; you can dogpile me on Monday.
> 
> Anyways...time to move on. On Monday's episode, we pop down to King's Landing to see how the servant's life agrees with Arya. Stay tuned!


	12. Arya

SHE HAD BEEN A SERVANT FOR A WEEK WHEN IT HAPPENED. Willow had gone, taking the latest batch of washing out to dry, leaving Arya to dump the next batch into the washing bucket. She dumped in the linens and leaned back, pausing to wipe the sweat from her brow and immediately wondering why she had bothered. It was hot, yes, King’s Landing was always hot, it seemed, and the heat pulsating out from the forges did nothing to help, but she had just spent the morning elbow-deep in a washing basin so all she ended up doing was streaking the sweat with soap. She had to laugh at her foolishness. It felt good to laugh, felt much better than curling up in her hard, narrow bed at night and crying herself to sleep, so she let the giggles spread to her face, allowed herself a thin, bemused smile, and stretched. She pressed her knuckles into the small of her back, worked out the kinks, just as Willow had taught her, and it was then that she chanced to look down and it happened.

            Arya Stark looked down at her reflection and did not recognize herself.

            She should have. It was still the same face, after all, still the same plain, long features Sansa had called _horsey_ when they were fighting. Her eyes were still grey, her hair was still a dull dark brown, and she still looked more Stark than Tully.

            Everything was the same, _and yet nothing was._

            Arya had always been skinny, had been mistaken for a boy more times than she cared to count, even her twelfth nameday had failed to gift her Sansa’s womanly curves, but her weeks on the streets had taken their toll. The soft chubbiness of childhood and good living was gone, replaced by features thin and drawn and seemingly etched from stone. Her hair was clean, sure, but Willow had taught her how to pull it back into a tight bun that rested at the nape of her neck, and she had a kerchief atop her head and tied tight under her chin. Her _dress_ seemed nothing of the sort, was plain and brown and roughspun, worn thin by countless washings.

            She rested her hands on the sides of the tub, looked down into water disturbed only by the occasional soapy bubble, and tried to find Arya Stark, but try as she might, she couldn’t discern her in the face that glared back up at her.

            All she could see was Jeyne the servant, only a week off the streets.

            It made her want to run to the Red Keep, find Father, hurl herself into his arms, and cry. Just…cry and cry and _cry,_ but she couldn’t do that, could she? She couldn’t run to Father and she couldn’t run to Mother, couldn’t wrap her arms around Nymeria, couldn’t even tease Sansa, couldn’t do anything, _anything…_

The world was looking for Arya Stark, but no one thought to look for Jeyne the former street rat, and somehow, that made her feel _worse._

            “Everything alright, Jeyne?”

            Arya gasped, lurched back from the tub, rounded on the door. For some reason, she had expected to find some glowering gold cloak, finally here to drag her kicking and screaming to the Queen. She had long since decided that she wouldn’t go quietly. Sansa had gone quietly, she somehow knew, Sansa was a _good girl_ who always did as she was bid, but _she_ was Arya Horseface, so she figured she might as well kick and bite like a mule if she had the chance.

            But it wasn’t a gold cloak, or even a red cloak, or any cloak at all, not even Old Sybilla come to smack her on the head for the crime of _woolgathering, we’re servants, not shepherds,_ the old woman had said the last time she thumped Arya for gazing off, _and we have work to do, so get to it, girl._ No, it wasn’t any of them, it was someone worse.

            It was Gendry.

            “Oh, no,” she blurted, looking down at the ground as she sketched the little curtsy Willow had taught her, “I was just miles away, I suppose.”

            The broad-shouldered senior apprentice chuckled and leaned against the doorframe. “Somewhere good, I hope,” he said, crossing his arms and smiling.

            Arya hated it when Gendry smiled. When he frowned, he looked just another blacksmith’s apprentice, but when he smiled, he looked almost handsome, and Arya _hated it._ It made her _feel things._ She had always hated it when boys made her _feel things._ She was Arya, not Sansa, she wasn’t supposed to _feel things._ She was a water dancer, _a warrior,_ cut from the same cloth as Nymeria of legend, not some silly little girl who blushed and giggled and swooned whenever a boy chanced to smile at her, especially a boy Arya didn’t even _like._ It was all Willow’s fault, stupid Willow with her constant gushing about Gendry’s _broad shoulders_ and _blue eyes_ and _big hands_ and _kind smile_. Arya didn’t have _time_ for this, _I’m a fucking fugitive, gods-dammit,_ but _no,_ Willow just had to _gush_ about her _crush_ and now Arya was afraid it was starting to rub off on her and it was _annoying._

            Better to face the Queen than deal with _this._ The Queen would only make her feel anger, and better anger than _things._

_At least the anger would be my own feelings, dammit._

            “Jeyne?”

            Arya jerked herself out of her spiraling thoughts, forced herself to look Gendry in the eye. “Um…yes?”

            He was frowning at her, brow furrowed, eyes full of concern. “Are you sure you’re alright, Jeyne?”

            She put on her best smile, or what she hoped was her best smile. Willow was always cross with Arya when she was mean to Gendry, and Arya liked Willow, for all the girl’s stupid contagious _gushing_. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

            He shrugged, uncrossed an arm and started rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I don’t know, it’s just…you were staring at the floor for an awful long time, and you…you…” Now _he_ was the one looking away, _he_ was the one acting all awkward and _weird._ “You looked like you were going to cry.”

            A flash of anger raced up and down her spine. “Was _not_.”

            Gendry shoved himself off the doorframe, spread his hands. “Well, that’s how it looked to me.”

            She shot him a glare, turned back to the tub, shoved her arms into the water. “Well, you’re _wrong,_ I don’t cry, _I never cry,_ so…so…so _piss off_ and leave me alone.”

            Gendry sighed. “I was just trying to be nice…”

            The glare Arya focused on the tub was hot enough to leave her surprised the water didn’t start boiling. “Whatever, you only came in here to talk to Willow, so like I said, _piss off._ ”

            “Suit yourself,” came the answer, and she waited a good long while before she bothered to check if he was gone. When she saw that he was, she hung her head. She felt bad, and not just because Willow would be cross with her again. She just felt… _she felt bad._

**** _Bad and sad and so very alone…_

            She looked around, tilted her head, listened to the hammers ringing in the forges, heard Willow’s voice out back, singing a jaunty tune.

            It was only when she knew she was alone that she hung her head and allowed a few tears, hot and scalding as fresh boiled water, trickle down her face.

            Gendry had been right, damn it, but gods forbid she ever let him – _or anyone else –_ know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me tell you a story.
> 
> I got into the fanfiction business with Zutara fics (that's the ship of Zuko and Katara from Avatar: The Last Airbender for all you squares). I thought I was pretty prepared for the resulting comments/reviews. Most were positive, some were negative, and there was even this one random legit troll who made me want to sit them down and ask if they were okay. But, thing is, there was this one person, self-professed hardcore Kataang shipper, who just...they'd just leave me these long-winded screeds about how Zutara was shit and Kataang was the best. Which, you know, fine, opinions are like assholes, everyone's got one, you do you, boo, but it did leave me wondering: 
> 
> Why were they reading a clearly marked Zutara fic? Surely they had better things to do?
> 
> So, after emerging from my annual Father's Day Depressive Episode, I was scrolling through a lot of your comments, and I remembered that incident from the past. After seriously considering just abandoning the fic and getting talked off a cliff by my wife, I finally had to just say what I said the last time:
> 
> This is a story I badly want to tell. All I can do is tell it to the best of my ability in the way I want to tell it. 
> 
> *shrugs* That's the way it is.
> 
> Anyhoo, time to move on, yeah? In Thursday's episode, Jon tries to get Rickon out of his funk. Stay tuned!


	13. Osha

SHE DOZED IN THE CHAIR BY THE LITTLE LORD’S DOOR AND DREAMED. In the dream, she was a little girl again, a sweet-natured little girl with a family and a clan and a tribe. Her parents were still alive, still loved each other, still presided over Osha’s numerous brothers and sisters, still showered them with love and affection. In the dream, Osha had just come in from playing with the other village girls, hunting for food. Her mother was pregnant again, was working on supper. Osha had snuck up on the pot over the fire and tried to sneak a morsel, but Mama had sensed her coming. The wooden spoon lashed out, sent Osha yelping back from the fire. Osha had glared at Mama, but Mama had just laughed and ruffled Osha’s hair and told her to go back to playing, _supper will be ready soon, sweetheart._ Osha had opened her mouth to give some clever response, but suddenly the dream shifted and the world began to shake and she had opened her eyes and it had all fallen away.

            She wasn’t a little girl anymore, she was a woman grown, _a spearwife._ Her village was gone, Mama and Papa were gone, everyone was gone, _the cold had come and the things that brought that cold had taken them and-_

Someone was speaking to her. She rubbed her eyes, heaved herself out of the chair, and attempted a curtsey. _Attempted_ was the key word; the women of Winterfell had tried to teach her how to do it properly, but she just couldn’t quite get the hang of it. “Apologies, m’lord,” she mumbled, still rubbing at her eyes. “What was that?”

            The man who had woken her up chuckled. “I said, _Is my brother awake?_ ”

            Osha frowned, giving the man who had woken her up a hard look. _No, not man, boy, barely eight-and-ten if anything._ He was also very much _not_ Lord Robb, _or is it Lord Robert, people call him both,_ Osha could not quite wrap her mind around the ways of the kneelers, _what even is a **lord,**_ but there was…

            She furrowed her brow and gave the boy _another look,_ more… _complete,_ this time. He was comely, that could not be denied, and he had a strong look of Stark. There was darkness, though, a sadness lurking in the boy’s dark grey, almost black, eyes. _This one spends too much time brooding._ “Pardon, m’lord-“

            The boy held up a hand. “Enough of that,” he said, short, but not unkind. “You’re a wildling, aren’t you?”

            Osha bit down on the annoyance that word always brought her. She didn’t exactly _like_ being a servant to southern kneelers, but she could not deny that it was better than the alternative, and the two little lords were too sweet-natured for Osha to hold much of a grudge. “I’m of the Free Folk, yes.”

            The boy nodded. “Good, then you won’t mind never calling me a _lord_ again.”

            Osha couldn’t stop the smile. _Finally, a kneeler who understands._ “As you wish. What shall I call you?”

            “Jon, if you please. You’re Osha, right?”

            “I am,” Osha said, nodding. A snatch of memory burbled up, a vague recollection of off-hand comments by the little lords about a _natural-born brother packed off to the Wall._ “Jon Snow, I take it?”

            “Aye,” the boy said. “I’m Lord Stark’s bastard.”

            Osha rolled her eyes. “You kneelers put too much value on such things.”

            “You might be on to something there,” the boy admitted. “Now, as for my brother…”

            Osha sighed. Half the reason the Young Wolf allowed her such freedoms was because she was the only one who could drag young Rickon out of his self-imposed shell. _Today, though…_ “The little lord refuses to leave his room.”

            The boy sighed. “I was afraid of that. Bran said as much. Well,” he continued, setting his shoulders and stepping to the door, “only one thing to do.” Without so much as a _by your leave,_ Lord Stark’s bastard drew back a leg and kicked the door open. “ _What’s all this I hear about you moping around in your room?!”_ the boy bellowed, storming into the room and, as Osha stepped in behind to watch, immediately setting to throwing all the shutters open. “I come galloping back from the Wall, and you don’t even come out to greet me?!”

            The little boy huddled with his direwolf on the bed was rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. Osha’s heart quivered at the sight. _The little lord’s been crying again, poor lamb._ Osha’s life had been hard and brutal and cold, as only life north of the Wall could be, but even there, little boys and little girls cried for their Mamas when they thought no one could see them. “I…” the little lord stammered, before trying again. “I… _Jon…?_ ”

            “Well,” Lord Stark’s bastard said, throwing open the last shutter and stomping to the foot of the bed, “it’s either me or a figment of your imagination, and can figments of your imagination open shutters?”

            The little lord shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe…?”

            The bastard rolled his eyes. “Enough of that now, Rickon. On your feet, it’s time you got some sun.”

            The little lord looked like he was going to burst into a fresh flood of tears. “It’s…it’s really you, Jon? Robb wasn’t lying? You’re really back?”

            “Of course, I am!” came the reply. “You really thought I was going to let Robb go running off south all alone? Someone’s got to keep an eye on him.”

            Osha gave a sharp nod at that. North of the Wall, war was a family affair; it wasn’t right that a chief – or even the son of a chief – should go to war alone, especially when there was a perfectly fit and able brother to go with him.

            The little lord’s lip was quivering now, his eyes full of tears. “Mother won’t send you away again?”

            “No,” the boy said, a hard set to his face, “never again, not like that. Robb promised.”

            The little lord sniffled and looked away. “Robb promised that he’d come back from the south…”

            “Good thing I’m here to make him keep that promise then.”

            A little life came into the little lord’s face then, a little life, even a little color, as he looked up through the fringes of the shaggy mop of hair he refused to let anyone cut. “You can do that…?”

            The bastard ( _no, Jon, his name is **Jon,** and you don’t even have to call him **m’lord**_ ) stepped to the edge of the bed, leaned forward, and titled his little brother’s head up with a finger under the chin. “I can try. I promise you that. I won’t let Robb leave my sight, and together we’ll fetch your mother and we’ll rescue Father and we’ll bring the girls home. Sound good?”

            The little lord nodded, wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “It sounds very good…”

            The boy called Jon drew back, crossed his arms, and sighed. “There are conditions, though.”

            The little lord looked dubious; Osha almost burst out laughing. “ _Conditions…?_ ”

            “Aye, _conditions._ You’re to stop shutting yourself up in here, stop being mean to everyone, stop encouraging Shaggydog to be mean to everyone, _especially Maester Luwin._ You’re to attend to your lessons and go outside and play with your friends and get some sun and…oh…” Jon reached out and ruffled the little lord’s hair. “ _You’re going to get a damned haircut._ Agreed?”

            The little lord mulled it over as only a five-year-old could be, before nodding. “Agreed.”

            “Good! Now,” the young man said, stepping back and spreading his arms wide, “give me a hug, and we’ll consider it settled.”

            For a moment, Osha was sure that the little lord would do nothing, but then the little lord shrieked like a hawk diving to the kill, before bouncing off the bed and into his brother’s arms, bursting into happy tears as his brother swung him around and around.

            It was a sweet sight, not even ruined when the little lord’s direwolf bolted out of the room, nearly knocking Osha over as it raced out and down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I was so busy processing lingering depression from Father's Day weekend that I forgot to share how I came up with Arya's scene. Basically, remember when you were like, I dunno, 13/14/15, and your friend was crushing HARD on someone, and at some point your friend gushed so freaking much that the crush started to rub off on you? I started to wonder how Arya would handle that on top of everything else, and thought it would provide one light note in the midst of what is, for her, a real dark night of the soul. The work of a bottom-rung servant isn't help her, either. Her job is to basically do whatever random bullshit drudgery she's told to do; lots of time for her mind to wander. One of you said, Where is Brienne when you need her, and I couldn't agree more.
> 
> For today, one of the things I drew on was that it's repeatedly mentioned - mostly in Bran's POVs, but every once in a while in Jon's - that Rickon seems to both not really understand that Jon is a bastard, as well as not really care. Now, in the books, this is because Rickon starts out as a three-year-old. Here, Rickon gets a couple of years tacked on, for two reasons. One, everyone else got a couple extra years, why not Rickon?
> 
> Two, my son is two-and-a-half-year-old, deep into the Terrible Twos and hurtling right into the Threenager stage. That's my everyday life, and you can not make me write a kid that aged in my fun relaxing hobby, I refuse.
> 
> Also, random quibble: As someone who is now a parent of small children, GRRM has obviously not spent a lot of time around little kids. I mean, he does alright, but there are some glaring mistakes. 
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, Jon and Robb finally sit down and talk. Stay tuned!


	14. Jon

“HOW FAR HAVE YOU MADE IT?” HIS BROTHER ASKED FROM THE DOOR.

            Jon sighed, leaning back in his chair as he tossed the raven’s scroll onto Father’s table. “As far as Sansa’s letter,” he said, settling into the chair and stretching his legs out towards the fire, reaching up to run his hands through his hair.

            Robb scoffed as he made his way through Father’s solar and settled into Father’s chair, pausing only to unbuckle his sword and prop it next to Jon’s sword in a corner. “The Queen’s letter, more like. Put it here,” he said to the servant who hovered at the door, reaching out and pushing letters and papers and scrolls aside to make a space, “leave the flagon, and then you’re dismissed with my thanks.” The boy bustled in, setting a platter piled high with loaves of fresh baked bread, soft cheese, and crisp bacon in the space Robb had cleared. Another servant, a girl this time, appeared at the boy’s elbow, a little ale slopping over the side of the flagon the girl set beside the platter. They stood back, each producing a tankard; one they handed to Jon, the other they gave to Robb. The boy bowed and the girl curtsied, they both muttered _m’lords,_ and then they left, closing the door behind them.

            Leaving Jon to round on his brother, pouring ale into both their tankards as he said, “What’s with all of this _lord_ business?”

            Robb waited until his tankard was full, took it, and broke off a heel of bread. “What else are they to call you? They can’t just go around saying, _yes, bastard,_ or _no, bastard._ ”

            Jon fought the anger, washed it down with a gulp of ale and a bite of bacon. _The Bastard of Winterfell._ That’s how he had been known, for as long as he could remember. _The Bastard of Winterfell, Lord Stark’s Shame._ The North was easier on bastards than any other kingdom outside of Dorne, but that didn’t mean it was _kind,_ and besides, Lady Stark had once been a Tully, _a southerner,_ and the Seven ruled at Riverrun, the Seven and their _rules_. Jon could not remember a moment of his life that he had not been dogged by whispers of this woman or that, could not recall a single second when he had been free of sneers and titters and gossip, could not conjure even a half-kind word from Lady Stark, when she deigned to acknowledge his presence at all. _The Wall would have put paid to all that,_ he had once thought. _On the Wall, the past is wiped away. On the Wall, even a bastard can rise to be Lord Commander._

            Tyrion Lannister’s words echoed in his skull. _All dwarfs are bastards in their father’s eyes._

_Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armor yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you._

            And then, as he broke off his own heel of bread, the Imp’s words were gone, and Maester Aemon’s voice was ringing in his ears.

            _Not a day goes by that I don’t wish my brother, or my nephew, or even my grandnephew, had called me South. I would have gone, gone in a heartbeat, cast aside my vows and my chain, anything to help them, help my family. They did not call, but your brother has, so remember this:_

_Your brother calls for **his** **brother** , but he needs a **man** to fight beside him, not a boy to laugh with._

_Kill the boy, and let the man be born._

“ _Bastard_ would be better than _lord,_ ” Jon finally said, washing down a bite of bread with a mouthful of ale.

            Robb shrugged, the sunlight through the windows making the incipient, dull red beard on his chin ripple with fire. “Mayhaps you think so, but I won’t have them call you bastard where I can hear it.”

            Jon shrugged with a calmness he did not feel. “It’s what I am.”

            Robb fixed him with a glare that was more Father than brother. _I was right, in what I said in the yard. Lordship suits him._

_It’ll never suit me._

“It’s not what you _are,_ ” Robb said, snatching the knife off the platter and setting to the task of cutting the cheese into thick slices. “What you _are_ is a Stark. What you _are_ is my brother, and that’s all that matters.”

            Jon waved his half-full tankard at the window. “Tell that to them.”

            “I have,” Robb said, and Jon could only blink, knowing it was true. “And those I haven’t told have guessed, or did you miss the feast the Greatjon threw for you?”

            Jon could only laugh. “You’ve heard of that, have you?”

            Robb flashed him a smile as he settled back into Father’s chair, placing a slice of cheese and a half a piece of bacon on a heel of bread and taking a bite. “Smalljon told me all about it,” Robb said around the food, before swallowing and taking a drink. “He was at pains to tell me of the courtesies his lord father paid you and the men of the Watch who came with you.” Robb took up another slice of cheese. “I pray you made no promises.”

            “What,” Jon said, munching on a fresh piece of bacon, “about the line of march, or who was to command what?” He swallowed, drank, shrugged. _Kill the boy, let the man be born._ “Lord Umber bent my ear and made his wishes known, and I promised to speak to you about them.”

            Robb eyed him. “And will you?”

            “Speak to you? Why bother, when Smalljon has done my work for me?”

            Robb sighed, let silence pass as they ate and drank. “That he has,” Robb finally said. “What do you think?”

            _Lord Snow,_ Ser Alliser had sneered. Even at the Wall, he was still a bastard. Even Uncle Benjen had turned his back on him. _On the Wall, a man gets only what he earns. You’re no ranger, Jon, only a green boy with the smell of summer still on you._ And Jon had tried to earn, he had, he had taken Donal Noye’s brutal words to heart and worked and worked and _worked,_ but Ser Alliser still sneered and everyone but Grenn and Pyp and eventually Sam had still laughed until Jon had wanted to scream. _What did you earn?_ Jon screamed at his uncle in his dreams, uttering words he would never dare to let loose when he was awake. _You’re a good ranger, aye, but why is Benjen **Stark** First Ranger while Qhorin Halfhand is not? Why is Jeor **Mormont** Lord Commander while Cotter Pyke is not? _Even at the Wall, names held power, and in the Watch, _Snow_ was as common as flowers in the Reach…

            _I traded being the Bastard of Winterfell for being just another bastard at Castle Black._ And yet, he would’ve been happy, _or, at least, he **thought** he would’ve been happy, _just one amongst a multitude, until Robb called him home. Now he was _the Bastard of Winterfell_ again, only Lady Stark was gone, even Father was gone, _gods help him and keep him safe,_ and his brother was asking him what he thought.

            _Even Lord Mormont never asked me that._

Aemon was speaking again. _Kill the boy, and let the man be born._

            Jon had found the phrase to be strangely applicable, with countless interpretations as mundane as _sip the Umbers’ ale, don’t chug it_ and as deadly serious as _no matter how high the lord or how courteous their words, don’t promise **anyone anything**_. In this case, though, Jon decided it meant something that fell somewhere in between, that being

            _Stop brooding._

“Don’t put them behind, or even next to, the Hornwoods,” Jon heard himself saying. “Father always warned you that there was blood between Umber and Hornwood.”

            Robb nodded, taking a bite out of a piece of bacon. “Aye, I was thinking the same myself. Therefore, I’m taking the supreme command.”

            Jon arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”

            Robb shrugged. “I have to, don’t I?” Robb snatched a slice of cheese and his tankard, slumped back in Father’s chair. “Father always warned me that the lords of the North were quarrelsome. There is not one lord I can give the command to without half the host marching away, so it has to be me.”

            Jon leaned forward, both to look his brother in the eye and to refill his tankard. _Kill the boy._ The ale was the same temperature as the room, neither warm nor cold. The ale at the Wall was thick and brown, but it was always ice cold, and the ale he’d been allowed to sip at Winterfell had often been flat by the time it reached him. _Robb really has ordered that I be treated like a lord._

_My brother, my blood brother, really does love me._

“Aye,” he said, leaning back with ale in one hand and a piece of bacon in the other, “you’re right. Father had the same problem when he called the banners against the Mad King, remember?”

            Robb laughed. “How could I not? Father told us often enough.”

            Jon nibbled at his cheese and sipped his ale. “You already know the solution to problem with the Umbers, don’t you?”

            Robb tipped his tankard in salute. “Mayhaps I do, but mayhaps I wanted to hear it from you.”

            “Mayhaps, but the answer is still plain as day. The Umbers are a senior house, alternate them in the line of march with the other senior houses, but don’t let anyone dictate who commands what in battle.”

            Robb laughed. “That is _exactly_ what I had already decided.” Robb sipped his ale and snatched up a piece of bacon. “I didn’t call you home to agree with me, though.”

            Jon shrugged. _Kill the boy._ “Give me time, and I’ll disagree with your loutish arse eventually.”

            Robb threw back his head and laughed. “ _That’s_ more like it!” He finished his bacon, finished his tankard, and refilled it. “And don’t worry, I won’t make you marry one of Lord Umber’s daughters.”

            Jon winced at the memory of the number of dances Sanah Umber had dragged him into. Lord Umber’s eldest daughter had been fair to look upon, clever and witty, but she had also danced with an enthusiasm that had left Jon feeling bruised and battered. _And besides…_ “Please don’t. When this is all done, I mean to go back to the Wall.”

            Robb fixed him with a hard stare. “Do you?”

            Jon nodded with a surety he did not feel. Sam’s face floated before him, the words Sam had left unspoken ringing in his ears. _You’ll never come back. There’ll always be another thing, and another thing, and then one more._

 _No,_ Jon thought at the unspoken words. _No, I’ll come back._

_I’ll still be a crow._

“Yes,” Jon said, “I mean to. Will you let me?”

            Robb sighed. “If that’s what you want. But next time, it’ll be _your_ choice, not Mother’s.”

            Jon raised his tankard. “I’ll drink to that.”

            “Good,” Robb said. “Now,” turning to the pile of letters, “let me show you the latest word from Riverrun, and we’ll see if your ideas are as good as mine. Did you happen upon the letter from my mother, about the knife and the Imp?”

            Jon shook his head. “No, but Lord Umber told me all about it, though I’m not sure I believe it.” He took a sip of his ale.

            “I know what you mean,” Robb replied, sipping his ale with one hand and rummaging through the papers with the other. “He stopped here on his way back from the Wall, told us how to design a saddle so Bran could ride. Do you think he’d be capable of sending some catspaw to slit Bran’s throat, then telling us how to help Bran be happy?”

            Jon looked down into his ale. “I…I think…” _Kill the boy._ “There’s a streak of ruthlessness there, make no doubt. I liked him, and he gave me some good advice, but I can’t quite convince myself that he wouldn’t do something like that if he felt he had to.”

            Robb looked up from the papers. “But…?”

            “But…well…he’s fiendishly clever, clever enough not to make such a botch of it.”

            Jon tore his eyes from his ale in time to catch his brother’s smile. “As it happens, I agree, and I can’t help but think that Mother would have seen that, too, had she paused to think upon it. See?” Robb continued, turning back to the papers on his desk. “This is exactly why I needed you back here, why we _all_ needed you back here.”

Jon felt his face twist into a grimace as he mulled that over. “Your mother wouldn’t have listened to me, Robb. Gods, I doubt she’ll listen to me _now._ ”

Robb shrugged the concern away. “Not once she hears about the effect you had on Rickon. That boy’s been sulking and snarling ever since Mother went south, you pay him one visit, and now he’s chasing other children around the yard.”

            “That…is unlikely to make Lady Stark smile, Robb,” Jon suggested. He wasn’t sure why he was persisting in this, _it seems like such a small hill,_ but there was something about the way his brother had just…well… _shrugged a complication away_ that made warning horns blast in Jon’s ears.

            Not that Jon’s words had much of an affect upon his brother. “Have I ever told you that you worry too much, Jon? Because, you do. Now, get off your arse, and help me find this gods-damned letter.”

            Jon finished off his latest slice of cheese, refilled his tankard, ignored those distant horns and their warnings, and heaved himself out of his chair. “As you command, _Lord Robert._ ”

            “Bugger off.”

Jon laughed. “I’ll see what I can do. Who’s this letter from?”

            “Vyman, the maester at Riverrun, writing on behalf of Uncle Edmure, who’s still out in the field, it seems, glaring up at the Golden Tooth.”

            “Has he had any response from the Lannisters?”

            “Not that he’s felt the need to tell me.”

            Jon gulped some ale, set the tankard aside, and joined his brother in the search. Those last words had been ominous and cold, one could almost hear the clash of steel and the scream of horses within them, and yet, Jon couldn’t help but feel warm and happy and full of peace.

            It was good to be home, even if only for a brief adventure before returning to the Wall.

            At least, that’s what he told himself. Sometimes, he even believed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Go ahead and take that dive off that cliff if your going to rage at your readers if you can't stand when they point out that you blatantly lied in the premise of this story just to lure readers"
> 
> Like...Jesus Christ. I didn't know my step-dad read Game of Thrones fanfiction! Though, now that I look at it, like, really examine the comment, I guess it's not my step-dad after all. There are no racial or homophobic slurs, there's not one threat to my life, and I'm not reading it through a black eye with a paper towel pressed to my busted lip. Long story short: Look, dude, we, like, just got started, I already said that it was going to take a bit for the effects of the rippling changes to start piling up. If you don't want to wait around for events to start to cascade, that's fine, I understand, we've all got a limited amount of time to spare, feel free to go spend your time on a story you like more, hopefully written by someone who doesn't trigger you the way I seem to.
> 
> It's like I keep saying: If you don't like it, feel free to not read it. *shrugs*
> 
> Anyhoo, not a lot to say about this chapter. One of the regrettable parts of telling any story is that, at some point, you have to slow things down and do some housekeeping. You know, establish where we are in the timeline (which hasn't massively veered off quite yet), dole out some exposition, engage in some foreshadowing, that kind of thing. I will say that this is one of my favorite things I've written so far; Jon and Robb have a fun dynamic that we didn't get to see nearly enough of in canon. It's also a dynamic I'm somewhat jealous of, because I don't have relationships like that with either of my siblings. My older half-sister (we share a dad) is, like, hardcore fundamentalist Christian, and my younger half-brother (same mom) recently tried to get me to read Ben Shapiro's most recent book, which, well, no thank you.
> 
> But yeah, enough about me. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, we pop back down to King's Landing to see how Ned is faring. Stay tuned!


	15. Eddard

“GOOD EVENING, LORD STARK.”

            Ned didn’t answer. He didn’t see why he should, and Father had always preached the value of silence. _Better to be thought a fool, then to speak and remove all doubt,_ was how Father had put it. _Better to just not be a fool,_ Brandon had replied, with his sharp, barking laughter. Lyanna had agreed, while Benjen had looked torn, leaving only Ned to follow Father’s advice.

            _And now they’re all dead._ Ned sighed, shifted in his chair, tried not to wince at the pain that sliced up his still-mending leg. _Father and Brandon and Lyanna, and the last raven from Castle Black said that Benjen was missing, leaving only me, sitting in a lonely cell, wondering how it all went wrong._

 _You know where it all went wrong,_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like Lyanna’s said. _The moment you lost sight of Winterfell, the moment you turned your back and followed your stupid friend, **again** , the moment you looked at Benjen and told him that he had lost his wits, it all went wrong._

 _Robert wasn’t stupid,_ Ned replied, in the voice of a callow young boy.

            To that, Lyanna just shot him a _look_ and walked away.

            He didn’t blame her. He had always been a fool, especially where Robert was concerned. Still, he couldn’t help but wish she would stay. It was easier to talk to her when he could imagine her outside of that horrid, blood-soaked dream.

            He had so much to tell her.

            “Hm,” Varys said, as he set the platter of food and drink on the rickety little table that took up so much of Ned’s cell. “You know, my lord,” Varys continued, as he settled himself on the other chair in the cell, “it would not kill you to say _good evening_ back one of these days.”

            Ned wasn’t sure about that. He wasn’t sure about much of anything anymore, so he just shifted in his chair, the better to relieve some pressure on his leg and cross his arms more firmly.

            He knew it was childish to cling to his pride so, but his pride was all that was left to him. Sansa was in the power of the Lannisters, Arya was gods only knew where, Jon was at the Wall, Catelyn was in the Eyrie…

            _Scattered…all scattered…_

He thought of Jory, Jory and all those he had brought south with him.

            _All scattered…and so many others dead…_

_And for what…_

Varys sighed, followed by the sound of wine being poured into cups. “Will you at least take some drink?”

            Ned would have preferred a good northern ale, or at least some cool water, but wine would have to do, so he took a cup and began to sip.

            “Well,” Varys said with yet another of his theatrical sighs, “I suppose I shall have to do the talking once again.” This brought yet _another_ sigh, a sigh heavy enough to send the man’s perfumed breath wafting over Ned. Not for the first time since he had been dragged up from the black cells, Ned found himself missing Rugen. Rugen and Varys were one and the same, of course, but Varys was somehow… _more tolerable,_ when he wasn’t Varys.

            Ned tried not to think too deeply upon that, instead concentrating on his wine.

            “One would think that you would be a tad more grateful,” Varys said, and Ned didn’t have to look at the man to see the sardonic twist of the mouth. “Were it not for me, you would still be in the black cells. Were it not for me, you would not just be in the black cells, but would have been long since _put to the question._ I assume that my lord knows what it means to be _put to the question?_ ”

            Ned knew. He was a lord, after all, _or had been one, at least,_ the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, with the power of pit and gallows from the Neck to the Wall. Ned was suspicious of torture, but even he had had cause to send the occasional man to the rack. He had once assumed that would be his fate, in those long, horrid days in the dark, down in the black cells, but then an infection had taken hold in his leg and he had been brought, delirious and ranting and confused, up out of the darkness and to this very cell, to be tended to by maesters and properly fed. He even had servants of a sort, boys and girls to bring him fresh clothes and help him wash himself, a barber to trim his beard and hair, a maester to tend to his leg and change the bandages when needed.

            Rank had its privileges even for accused traitors, it seemed.

            _That, or the decision has been made that I’m worth more alive than dead._

            Into the silence, Varys sighed. Varys was good at sighing, though Ned wondered if the Master of Whisperers could match a Stark for brooding. _Jon takes after me in that._

_Poor Jon…_

It was left to Varys to break the silence, as Varys inevitably did. “So, it is to be the customary silence, I see. Very well, unless my lord wishes to confess…?”

            Ned responded by reaching around and taking up the platter Varys had brought, setting the platter on his lap. The food on offer was plain, but hearty, meat and cheese and bread and greens, all of it overcooked for Ned’s tastes, but good solid food, nonetheless. He set to eating, never once taking his gaze away from the wall.

            “You were much more talkative in the black cells, as Her Grace is oft at pains to remind me.”

            Ned winced, but continued eating and drinking. He assumed that he would eventually end up back in those same black cells, and he would need his strength against that day. _Besides, there was no shame in that. I was cold and feverish and injured; any man would talk in those conditions._

“Indeed…very well, on to the news. Your elder daughter is safe, well cared for and well looked after. I do hope you do not hold her betrayal against her. She is such a sweet girl, so courteous, so correct, so… _obedient._ ”

            _There was no betrayal, only failure, so many failures by so many people. She is only a girl, just five-and-ten, a child, truly. I never told her to guard her tongue, so she didn’t, and when Cersei commanded her to speak, she did, just like Cat and I taught her. I should have paid closer attention to her education, should have taught her more of what the world was really like, should have taught her how to see people for what they really are._

_It was my failure, mine and Cat’s as much as hers._

And besides, Ned had learned long ago the price of rushing to judgment. He had done it once, and paid the price in blood and tears and an impossible promise.

“I’m going to interpret your silence as I see fit and move on. Your younger daughter is still unknown to the Iron Throne, but she is not lost to me. As it happens, she is in a good place, somewhere no one would ever think to look for her. When the time is right, I will find a way to send her back home. Ah! That got a little life from you. Is my lord sure he would not like to speak?”

            _My lord is very sure he would like to keep his mouth shut, but thank the gods Arya was safe and beyond the clutches of the Lannisters._ Ned decided not to interrogate Varys any further; if he didn’t know any details, Cersei’s minions could not rack it out of him later.

            “Meanwhile, the realm hangs on the edge of a knife. The Vale is silent, the Reach is gathering swords, and Lord Renly is in Highgarden. Lord Stannis has called his banners, as have Lord Tywin and Riverrun; even Winterfell has called the banners. War is in the air, the Mountain That Rides is setting the river lands aflame, swords are being sharpened, mail is being polished, and hedge knights are on their knees in septs across the Seven Kingdoms, thanking gods old and new for their good fortune.”

            _They are all waiting for the other shoe to drop,_ Ned knew, eating and sipping. _They are all waiting for something to break, for something to happen, for the final straw to snap. Lords are always squabbling, always raiding each other, but it takes a special kind of misfortune before **armies** begin to march. When gaggles of men-at-arms and freeriders draw steel to settle some petty lord’s pissing match, one might earn a knighthood at most; when armies array for battle, everything up to a lordship dangles in the air, waiting only for one to reach out and take it._

“Strangest of all, though, is the word I have had from my little bird at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. It seems that Lord Stark’s natural-born son, Jon Snow, never took his vows. It seems that a sudden raven called him back to Winterfell, and away he went the next day, never becoming a brother of the Night’s Watch. Whispers have it that it was Lord Stark’s own heir, the so-called _Young Wolf,_ who called the boy back, though _boy_ might be a bit much, since like his half-brother, Jon Snow is all of eight-and-ten. Strange, don’t you think?”

            _Don’t move, don’t blink, don’t even twitch. Look ahead, focus on the food and the drink and the wall above your so-called **bed.**_

_Don’t make another mistake._

_**Not now**._

“So, it appears that _both_ of Lord Eddard Stark’s sons are preparing to march south to save him, and only the gods know what will happen from there. One wolf would’ve been trouble enough, but two? _Who knows what will come of that?_ ” A slurp, as Varys finished his wine, a shriek, as Varys pushed his chair back and stood. “I will leave you to contemplate your wall and your food, my lord. Until the morrow.” Keys jangled, hinges groaned, and then the door slammed shut and Ned was left with his silence and his ghosts.

            _My boys._ He didn’t want to smile; he knew the danger Robb and Jon were going to march into. There was even a voice, somewhere in the back of his mind, that old him that Cat would be furious, but somehow, he couldn’t help but smile.

            _My boys._

_My boys are coming to get me._

_There is hope, after all, thin and fragile as a frayed cord, but hope, nonetheless._

It made him wonder why Varys had told him.

            And just like that, his smile died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is up so late. I blame this chapter. It's actually a really important chapter; it's setting up a lot of things, and it's serving as part of the hinge of the story. The army is going to leave Winterfell in about two chapters, and then shit is going to start moving and the changes are going to start rippling, so it required a lot of work and tweaking. I'm still not a hundred percent happy with it, but at a certain point you just have to write it, post it, and move on.
> 
> One funny thing, though: I didn't realize until last night that the story may, indeed, seem a bit slow-paced at this point. See, I'm down in the Whispering Wood right now, juggling plot points and story divergences, and shit is going to be off the chain. Stick with me a bit longer.
> 
> Couple quick housekeeping details. First, yes, I'm sticking with my version of Sansa. *shrugs* I'm a high school teacher by trade, so I tend to have a bit more patience for kids Sansa's age than a lot of people do. That said, I've heard your complaints, I've taken some of them to heart, but at the end of the day, this version of Sansa is vital for a major plot point/story divergence way down the line. Sorry.
> 
> Also, I'm going to take a quick poll here. Should I split this story up into parts, like, a Book One, Two, Three, or make it all one big story from beginning to end? I can easily do both, but I'd like to hear from you guys what you think; both approaches have their benefits. Thoughts?
> 
> What else...what else...oh! If you're reading this on AO3, um...you guys need to stop guessing major plot points, alright? Seriously; reviews on AO3 got no fewer than three major plot points on Monday's chapter, and one of them? Was seriously uncanny. Did you break into my apartment and skim my story notes?!?!
> 
> Anyhoo, time to move on! In Monday's episode, Greatjon Umber realizes that he should have listened to his son. Stay tuned!


	16. The Greatjon

THE CHAIR WENT FLYING, AND HIS HAND WAS UPON THE HILT OF HIS SWORD.

            A part of him, a part that sounded suspiciously like Uncle Mors, whispered that he had gone too far, that he was harming his cause far more than if he had kept silent. And there were other voices, too, some of them all too real, filling the great hall with muttering. He looked to his left, at his son and heir, the young man many called _the Smalljon,_ for all that his son was at least as big as him. His son had his hand in the air, hovering over Greatjon’s arm, the fingers opening and closing. They had spoken of this moment, the Greatjon and his eldest son, on the way to the evening’s feast. _The bastard will support us,_ Greatjon had said, but his son has shaken his head and said, _he will, but not in public; he is too loyal to his brother._

            _Force an open confrontation, and I believe that Jon will side with his brother._

But then _the Young Wolf_ had spoken of giving Lord Glover command of the van in any battle and Greatjon had been unable to keep his tongue still. He had protested, Ned’s eldest boy had spoken, the boy’s voice harder and sharper than Ned’s had ever been, and something in Lord Umber had snapped. An imagined future opened in his mind, and he had seen the Glovers scoffing at his boys on the march, seen the other lords quaffing ale and bragging about the southron lordlings and knights they had slain while the Umbers had brought up the rear, watched that cold bastard Roose Bolton counting out the money from ransoms, and then he was on his feet, the chair was flying, and that had been that.

            “You know the truth of my words!” he snarled, the ale from his tankard drip-drip-dripping off the edge of the table. “I told you often enough,” he continued, looking at Ned’s bastard, “ _Jon._ ”

            The Bastard of Winterfell rose, moved to his brother’s side, and bowed his head. “Aye,” the boy said, “you did, my lord, but my brother has made his decision, and that’s more than enough for me.”

            Lord Umber turned to his son and heir, but the Smalljon offered him no comfort, offered nothing more than a gaze that screamed, _I told you so._ The Greatjon ignored it, turned back on _the Young Wolf,_ he had the boy’s number. _Let the **boys** worship at his feet and call him the Young Wolf, I know that **Young** is more important than **Wolf.**_

_He claims to be a Stark, and yet he suffers a cripple brother to live._

_He claims to be a Stark, and yet he let his Tully mother pack his beloved brother, bastard or no, off to the Wall. We take care of our own in the North!_

_I can…_

_I can…_

He blinked. Ned’s bastard had promised to put Greatjon’s case before Ned’s heir, and yet, the bastard was beside his brother now, hand on the hilt of his sword. The Greatjon looked at the other lords, saw the hollow eyes of men who had already been mastered with methods the Greatjon had laughed at. He looked up at the head of the table, ignoring the Greyjoy boy with his smirking eyes and discounting the cripple, saw Ned’s heir, _saw that Ned’s boy was not alone,_ Ned’s other boy was there, _the Bastard of Winterfell,_ side-by-side with his brother, and then the direwolves were upon the table, Grey Wind and Ghost, Grey Wind snarling and Ghost just _glaring,_ and Greatjon knew that he was beat.

            A boy Ned’s son may have been, _or at least a boy compared to a Lord of Umber,_ but he had steel, _true steel, even,_ and sense, too, sense to call his brother to his side, sense not to march to war alone.

            _If he had, I might have won,_ Greatjon thought. _Against one Stark, aye, I might have one. Against two, though?_

_That’s a different sort of beast._

            “My lord father said that to draw steel against one’s liege lord was worthy of death,” the Young Wolf snarled, while the boy’s bastard brother drew his sword half out of its sheath in a soft _hiss,_ “but no doubt my lord of Umber merely meant to cut my meat for me.”

            The Greatjon gave the room one final glance. He saw his own son and heir shake his head, saw the other lords shrug and nod, saw the Bastard of Winterfell, the boy Lord Umber had worked so hard to cultivate, saw an expression that all but screamed, _You just couldn’t be patient, could you?_

Last but not least, the Greatjon saw the direwolves, one snarling, the other eerily silent.

            The Greatjon sighed.

            “Your meat…is bloody tough!” He threw back his head and laughed, and they all laughed with him, as the Greatjon resolved to listen to his eldest son’s counsel ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not, like, real happy with this one. That's a big part of why it's so late; I spent all day going back-and-forth, trying to decide if I shouldn't completely rewrite it, or maybe just skip to the next chapter. In the end, I decided that it serves a solid purpose, showing both the subtle (at this point) changes from having Jon standing beside Robb (Robb always did give the impression of an island standing alone before a raging sea), and also setting some undercurrents up for later.
> 
> I just wish I had managed to write it better. *sighs* Where's an editor when you need one?
> 
> Real quick shoutout: One of you over on AO3 (I believe) mentioned a Greatjon perspective while encouraging me to take my looking at canon events from a different POV concept and run with it. That was a genius idea, brilliant, really, and I would thank you by name, but it is 11:14pm in Texas and it seems that I've lost the Post-It note I wrote your username down on. I'll try to track you down by Thursday. Sorry!
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, Jon tries to decide what's weirder: Having a squire, or Theon Greyjoy trying to be nice to him. Stay tuned!


	17. Jon

“IT LOOKS GOOD, MY LORD.”

            “Does it?” Jon asked, turning this way and that, trying to a good look at himself in the pane of polished silver that his squire, Larence Snow, was holding. “I’m not sure if that’s a good thing, truth be told.” Father had always said that armor was for fighting, not for show.

            “Lord Glover always said that it doesn’t hurt for a lord to look good in his armor,” Larence replied. “Said that the smallfolk liked it when their lords look like lords.”

            Jon couldn’t find a flaw in that reasoning. Even Father had seemed to agree, in his own quiet, unstated way; Robb’s suit of mail-and-plate was plain and unadorned, but Robb still cut a dashing figure in it.

 _Or mayhaps that’s just Robb,_ Jon thought with a grin.

            “Be that as it may,” Jon said, turning away from the mirror and starting to windmill his arms around, launching into a series of stretches, lunges, and squats, the better to test the flexibility of his new armor, “I do believe it will serve. It will have to, at any rate, and you can put that thing away, Larence.”

            “At once, my lord,” came the reply, as Larence handed the pane of polished silver to two of Mikken’s boys, who carefully took it with gloved hands and trotted off into the depths of Winterfell’s forge. “Well my lord be wanting his helm and shield?”

            Jon shook his head. “Not yet, though, while we’re on the subject of _what my lord wants,_ what have I told you about all the _my lords?_ ”

            “You told me to dispense with such mummery, my…um…” Larence paused, scrunched his face up in confusion. “What should I call you then?”

            “Jon will suit me just fine,” Jon replied, stopping in his lunges and starting a series of jumping jacks.

            “But…I’m your squire, my…um… _Jon…?_ ”

            Jon gave the boy a smile. “That’s more like it. Keep at it, and soon you’ll be unable to call me anything else.”

            The boy looked dubious. “If you say so…um… _Jon._ ”

            Jon bit down on a laugh. The boy was nervous, he knew, keen to please and prove his mettle. Larence was the bastard son of Lord Hornwood, barely three-and-ten. He had been fostering with Lord Glover, and it was Glover who had brought the boy with him to Winterfell, ostensibly to see Lord Hornwood before they marched off to war. Jon had his suspicions, though; Lord Glover had been very eager to volunteer the boy as a squire for Jon. _I learned my lesson with Lord Umber; from now on, I heed Sam and look between the words to find the truth._

            Maester Aemon’s words came to him, as they so often did, whether Jon willed them or no. _Kill the boy._

 _I’m trying,_ Jon thought with a silent sigh. _I’m trying as best I can._

Truth be told, Jon hadn’t wanted a squire. It made everything feel too… _too real,_ if Jon was honest with himself. Men who had risen high enough to have squires weren’t apt to take the black; they had too many _responsibilities,_ and Jon couldn’t think of that word without remembering Sam’s prophecy. _There’ll be another thing, and then another and another…_

Jon shook the memories away. _Not now._ He finished his jumping, turned to his _squire._ Jon couldn’t get over how _young_ the boy looked. Larence had a lot of his lord father in him, from his thinness to his height to his sharp features and pointed nose, but the resemblance ended there. Lord Hornwood had bright green eyes, while Larence’s were a muted dark brown, and where Lord Hornwood was jovial and ever-obliging, Larence was quiet, shy, and ever-serious.

            _More like me than I would ever care to admit._

“I’ll take my shield and helm now, Larence, if you please.”

            Larence bowed his head and went to fetch the items, leaving Jon to look down at his armor. Robb had ordered a full suit of mail-and-plate, but Jon had found it heavy and confining, unable to fathom had anyone could fight in something like that. He had wanted to dress in mail and boiled leather, it seemed to suit the regular soldiers just fine, but Robb had demurred. _I’ll have my brother properly protected, thank you,_ Robb had said in what Bran called his _Lord’s Voice,_ and so Jon had compromised. The curiass remained, along with gauntlets for his hands and schynbalds for his shins and a gorget for his neck, all of it worn over a hauberk of chainmail which itself rested atop a padded gambeson. A skirt of boiled leather and more mail covered his legs, and he had chosen for his head a kind of halfhelm, which covered his cheeks and the back of his neck but left his face open, save for a thick nasal guard jutting down from the top. It was still a lot of steel, more than Jon had ever worn, and he knew he was taking a risk declining the full suit of plate, but he felt that the freedom of movement he would have would make up for it.

            _I’ve always been fast,_ he had told Robb. _It helps no one, least of all myself, if I surrender that._

At least, that’s what he had told his brother. Within his mind, he was far less certain, but the die was cast now. The army would leave on the morrow; there was no more time for being finicky.

            “Here’s your helm,” Larence said, handing Jon both the helm itself and cloth headpiece. Jon set the cloth on his head, then slid on the helm. The clangor of the forge dulled in an instant, but Jon could still hear everything clearly, even voices, and most important, he could _see._ Larence was holding out Jon’s shield when a mocking voice called from behind Jon.

            “What arms are _those?_ ”

            Jon tried not to sigh, he really did. “They’re _my_ arms, Theon,” Jon said, turning around to face his questioner.

            He found Theon Greyjoy looking much as he always did, arms crossed, leaning on a wall, his mouth curled into a queer smirk, as if the whole world was a jape that only Theon understood. Jon had never liked his father’s ward, the boy was much too fond of the word _bastard_ whenever Jon was within earshot, but Robb considered Theon a friend, so Jon renewed his resolve to be civil.

            If Theon noticed Jon’s efforts, he didn’t show it. “Let me get a good look at that shield, boy,” he said to Larence.

            Larence looked to Jon, first, who nodded and waved towards Theon. Larence walked over, handing the shield over, stepping back as Theon held the shield up to the light, making a big show of examining it. “The white wolf I get,” Theon said, “you’re a bastard, and bastards like to reverse their house’s colors, by why is it set on a field of black?”

            “The black is for the Watch, which I mean to return to,” Jon replied, hoping Theon hadn’t noticed how Jon had winced at the word _bastard._ It was a vain hope, he knew, but a man had to have his dreams.

            “Hmm,” Theon muttered, turning the shield this way and that, “rather drab, if you ask me.”

            “I didn’t.”

            “You should have; I would’ve suggested a bright red band sinister across the front. Acceptable for a bastard, and it would add a splash of color to the affair.”

            Jon had considered just such an addition for a moment, not that he would ever admit that to Theon. Instead, he reached out, tore the shield from Theon’s grasp, and handed it back to Larence. “Is there a point to this mummery, Theon, beyond irritating me?”

            Theon struck a pose and grinned from ear-to-ear. “Surely that’s reason enough.”

            “Not for seeking me out,” Jon said, holding out his left arm so Larence could strap on the shield. “If you just wanted to irritate me, you’d lounge against a wall somewhere and wait for me to happen by.”

            Theon threw back his head and laughed. “That I would, Jon, that I would.” _One day,_ Jon resolved, _I’ll best him in a battle of words._

 _Aye,_ another voice replied, _and if pigs had wings and could breathe fire they’d be as good as dragons._

Jon pushed both voices away, disquieted by how the second seemed more like his than the first, pulled his left arm back from Larence and checking the straps. “Good work,” Jon said to his squire, “firm, but a little tight.”

            “Lord Glover always said that tight was better,” the boy replied, “said that you’d get used to it in time.”

            “Hmm…well, Lord Glover would know better than me. Still…maybe a smidge looser in future, I think.”

            Larence bowed his head. “If you wish, my… _Jon._ ”

            That brought another baying laugh from Theon. “You might as well give in on the _my lords_ , Jon, if you can’t even get your squire to stick to it.”

            “You seem to have adjusted well enough.”

            “Begging your pardon, Jon, but I’ll call you _my lord_ when your dog is nice to me.”

            “Ghost isn’t a _dog,_ my lord,” Larence piped in, drawing himself up with all the dignity that a teenage boy could muster. “Ghost is a direwolf.”

            Theon opened his mouth to answer, but Jon cut him off. “Lord Theon is well aware of what Ghost is, Larence; he’s just making mock because Ghost doesn’t like him.”

            Theon, to his credit, shrugged and nodded. “It is a sticking point for me, considering how easily I won Grey Wind over. At the very least, get the damn silent brute to stop rolling those red eyes at me.”

            Jon rolled his own eyes. “Direwolves don’t _roll their eyes,_ Theon.”

            “Yours does. Be that as it may, your ill-tempered runt isn’t why I’m here. I’m here about my plan to-“

            “To bring your father and the Iron Islands onto our side,” Jon finished, giving himself a mental kick for not seeing it before. _Obvious, really._ “Spare me; Robb already gave you an answer, and I happen to agree with him.”

            Theon uncrossed his arms and pushed off his wall. “But, if you would just listen to me-“

            Jon held up a hand, making the chain mail jingle soft as chimes in a summer snow. “I listened when you first put it forward, and between you and me, the idea has merit.” Jon thought no such thing; he trusted Theon little, and he trusted Balon Greyjoy not at all. “But, as Robb pointed out, now is not the time. We’re going south to bring the Lannisters to the negotiating table, and they’re not like to do that if we bring reavers down on the Westerlands.” There was also, technically, at least, no _war_ to bring the Iron Islands into. _Not yet, at least._ Robb was still hoping that a show of strength would be enough to get the Lannisters to talk, especially if the Baratheon brothers challenged the succession. Jon was dubious, to say the least, but he understood why the approach had to be tried.

            “And I say again,” Theon replied, his face all business now, not a hint of mockery to be seen, “what if the Lannisters don’t negotiate? What if we can’t win the few battles we need? _What then?_ ”

            _Then we’ll be on our knees begging pardon for our treasons, and it won’t matter what Balon Greyjoy does then, will it? And you’ll be right on your knees beside us._

Jon didn’t say that, though; he didn’t want to frighten his squire, didn’t want to dampen the boy’s excitement. “Well,” Jon said, flashing Theon his best smile, “we all know how much you enjoy saying _I told you so._ ” For a fleeting moment, a mental image flashed into Jon’s mind, a vivid picture of himself walking the Wall beside Theon, who kept saying, _You know, I did tell you so,_ at every opportunity.

            Jon couldn’t quite stop the grimace. It was, after all, a distressing thought.

            “Aye,” Theon said, shaking his head, the smile and the mockery back on his face, “I do indeed.”

            For the first time in his life, Jon found himself wishing Lady Stark was around. Robb put far too much faith in the Greyjoy boy, who, in turn, put far too much faith in himself.

            _Lady Stark would know how to scupper this mad plan of Theon’s,_ Jon thought, not without a sense of irony. He couldn’t help but think that it said much of the state of things, that Ned Stark’s bastard would wish for the advice of Ned Stark’s lawful wife.

            _If that isn’t **killing the boy,**_ he asked his inner Maester Aemon, _what is?_

            The army of the North marched the next morning, Jon riding at the head of the host beside his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, about yesterday...I have no excuse other than that I have two children and it was a major holiday. Why did I not say ahead of time that this week's second chapter would be late? Well...I kind of forgot that July 4th was on a Thursday. My bad. My wife and I are teachers and when it's summer vacation, we tend to lose track of what day of the week it is. So, apologies, mea culpa, won't happy again!
> 
> On the flip side, this was a chapter that I feel was worth waiting for. Theon has arrived, and for those who have missed all the "little" changes so far, we just hit a major swerve in the narrative. Like, Balon Greyjoy is still going to do something shitty, it's kind of his thing, but it's going to go waaaay different. 
> 
> For those who didn't read the books (which, considering that it's becoming increasingly clear that GRRM will never finish them, might have been the best move, honestly), Larence Snow is an actual character. We never really meet him, but he pops up a lot, and Lord Glover is the kind of dude who would grab his baseborn fosterling on the off-chance of currying some favor. Jon Snow is an avenue to the future Lord of Winterfell now, and you'd have to be a fool not to try and pursue it.
> 
> On the armor note, Jon in canon is known for being fast on his feet at swordplay. In history, knights who fought like that often sacrificed complete armor coverage for speed and flexibility, and I'm kind of a dork about random tidbits like that (for example, I left out one bit of knightly armor trivia: Knights often did cartwheels in full suits of plate to make sure it was flexible enough, and if that doesn't end up as a Cross Fit exercise sometime in the next year, I don't know the internet). If you skipped that bit, I don't blame you; that was just for me.
> 
> Or will it come up later? Maybe...
> 
> Last note! Hey, dude with the Guest account leaving increasingly profane tirades in lieu of reviews, you actually made my day today. You wrote "shit just shit" on the Greatjon chapter, and the thing is, I don't necessarily disagree with you. I mean, I don't think it's shit, I just didn't think the chapter through very well and it bit me in the ass, but that bluntness on something I didn't really like made me legit laugh out loud. No sarcasm, it made my day.
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode (which will be ON TIME), Sam wakes up from a bad dream. Stay tuned!


	18. Samwell

HE WAS DREAMING OF SAVAGE SAM TARLY. It was a dream Sam had had before, though never quite so vivid or horrible. Savage Sam had been Lord of Horn Hill in the days of Aenys I, had, along with Harmon Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven, crushed the first Vulture King in the hills west of Nightsong, the seat of House Caron. All sources concurred that Savage Sam had had the Vulture King tied naked between two posts and left to die, but from there the tales differed. According to the maesters, the Vulture King died of thirst and exposure, only then being set upon by the vultures from which the Dornish outlaw took his name. The singers demurred; according to them, the Vulture King was set upon by the vultures from the very outset and torn to pieces.

            In the dream, or mayhaps the nightmare, Sam was never his forebear. No, even when asleep, Sam could never imagine himself as anyone worthy of a name like _Savage._ No, in the dream, he was the Vulture King, begging for mercy as the vultures set upon him. He would scream and cry and weep as the vultures tore him apart, and through it all, Savage Sam would laugh and laugh and laugh.

            Somehow, Savage Sam always had the face of Sam’s father.

            “ _Sam! Wake up!”_

Sam jerked awake, his belly slapping the bottom of the table he had dozed off at hard enough to make the flame on the candle at his elbow dance. In a panic, he reached out, grabbed the candle, steadied it, heedless of the tankard of heavily watered ale his other elbow sent hurtling to the floor. That was left to his tormentor to catch and set back upon the table.

            “By the Seven,” Grenn said, surveying the scene, “wherever you were, it was nowhere good.”

            Sam fought the burning embarrassment, failed, and gave up the fight. _A craven even in my own head, that’s me._ Whenever he called himself a craven, even in the thunderous silence of his own head, Jon’s face would appear before his eyes, glowering. This time was no different, though, as usual, Sam gave himself a shake and pushed the image aside. “What makes you say that?” Sam said, rubbing his eyes and looking up at Grenn.

            Grenn shrugged, set to rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, no reason, just, you know, the whimpering and the sweating and all. Like I said, it didn’t sound pleasant.”

            _No, it was not._ “Just a bad dream,” Sam muttered, wiping the back of his hand across his brow and trying not to groan at how much sweat he found. Sweat seemed unnatural, this close to the Wall; even when the Wall was weeping, Castle Black was often brutally cold. “Even the bravest men have bad dreams, the maesters say; imagine how much worse it must be for cravens.”

            Grenn shot him a glare. “You know, Jon told me I was to clout you on the ear every time you called yourself a craven.”

            “And yet you haven’t.”

            Grenn sighed. “Aye...I told Jon he should’ve set Pyp to the task, but here we are. What were you doing?”

            Sam looked upon the wreckage strewn across the table. There was a guttering candle at his left elbow, the remains of his last meal at his right, and all around were books and scrolls. An inkpot was in front of Sam, alongside a pile of foolscrap covered in his scribbles. “Maester Aemon wanted an inventory done of everything in the library.”

            Grenn nodded, picking up a random scroll and scowling at it. Sam knew that his friend lacked his letters, couldn’t even write his own name, no matter how often Sam offered to teach him. “Looks like slow going.”

            Sam sighed, ran a hand through his sweat soaked hair. “It is; Maester Aemon did the last full inventory and cataloging before he began to lose his sight, and that was nigh on twenty years ago. In all that time, I’m the first steward with enough letters to do the job.”

            Grenn dropped the scroll and put on a smile. “So being a lord’s son wasn’t a total waste, then.”

            “No,” Sam admitted with a sigh, “it wasn’t.” He gave himself a final shake, casting off the last vestiges of his horrid little dream, _or so he hoped, the dream of the Vulture King and Savage Sam always managed to linger, no matter how hard Sam tried,_ and focused his attention on Grenn. “So, come to check on me, or was it something else?”

            Grenn jerked upright, as if just now remembering. “Oh, right! The Lord Commander wants you.”

            Sam tried not to pale; he really did. “The…the…” He paused, gulped, tried his best to get a hold of himself. “He does…?”

            “He does,” Grenn said, nodding. “A few of the Builders found something queer as they were clearing trees from around the gate, and the Old Bear wants you to have a look at it.”

            “ _Me?”_ Sam squeaked.

            “Well, he wanted Maester Aemon, but he said to grab you as well. You know, for your eyes.”

            For reasons Sam couldn’t quite express, that explanation calmed him. “Oh…that makes sense…just give me a moment…”

            Grenn shrugged. “Fair enough.”

            They had to pass through the Wall to find the Old Bear, Bowen Marsh himself leading them through the gates, Maester Aemon leaning heavily on Sam’s arm as they trudged after Grenn, the day’s light dusting of snow billowing around their feet. The Lord Steward gave them over to Grenn, who led the way out to the artificial treeline made by the Builders. It was easy enough to find their destination. A cluster of Builders lingered a good distance away, leaning on their axes as they looked towards yet another cluster of black-cloaked men, these ones unmistakably Rangers. The Rangers stood in a loose half-circle around the bulk of the Lord Commander, who was crouching down, examining… _something…_

            “Is aught amiss?” Maester Aemon asked, leaning close to Sam’s ear.

            Sam could only shrug. “I don’t know, but something feels wrong.”

            “Oh, yes,” Maester Aemon replied, “I feel it, too. Are you afraid?”

            “Yes,” Sam replied, “I am. I can’t help but feel that this is nothing good.”

            “Trust that instinct, Samwell, for I share it, too.”

            That didn’t make Sam feel any better, but before he could think upon the implications, they were at their destination. The Lord Commander heaved himself up, brushing snow and grass from his trousers as he turned to greet them.

            Not that Sam saw any of it. All he saw were the two dead bodies.

            Suddenly, his dream felt rather prophetic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, the Others went through a lot of trouble to leave those bodies by the weirwood trees. When they didn't get discovered, it was time for Plan B.
> 
> For those playing the home game, Savage Sam Tarly is a character who pops up in GRRM's Fire & Blood: Part 1 book, which is essentially historical fanfiction penned by the author, thus making it semi-canon, and yes, I'm that kind of dweeb. I'd own A World of Ice and Fire if I had a coffee table to put it on...or if I didn't have a toddler with a penchant for coloring on things one doesn't want him to color on.
> 
> Not a hell of a lot to add here. Like I said before, the plot is about to start moving a bit more quickly, which is going to involve a lot of hopping around. If I start to lose you guys, give me a heads-up, and I'll adjust accordingly.
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, Catelyn makes her grand entrance. Stay tuned!


	19. Catelyn

BY THE TIME THEY CAUGHT SIGHT OF MOAT CAILIN, SHE WAS _ALMOST_ IN A GOOD MOOD. For that, Catelyn Stark gave full credit to House Manderly. She had boarded ship in Gulltown and left the vale filled with a deep, pitch-black rage, had maintained that rage, let it grow, even, around the Fingers and across the Bite. The rage had redoubled at Sisterton on the Three Sisters, when Lord Triston Sunderland, Lord of the Three Sisters, had welcomed her with all due courtesy and shown her the raven from King’s Landing that announced her husband’s arrest. By the time they had seen Seal Rock at the entrance to White Harbor, she was so furious she would not even speak to Ser Rodrik, much less let him attempt to lift her black mood.

            Wyman Manderly, Lord of White Harbor, had done much to sooth her tattered soul. He had greeted her, told her of how her son was calling the banners, assured her that the North would keep faith with _good ole’ Ned._ House Manderly had been driven from the south a thousand years ago, but the courtesies of the Reach still ran deep in their veins, she soon discovered. She was welcomed and cheered, a real septon had prayed with her in the castle’s sept, and at the welcome feast, the bards had sung the lovely, chivalrous songs she had so loved as a little girl. Before long, she was kneeling before Ser Rodrik and her uncle, begging their pardon for her discourtesy, and like the kindly knights her eldest daughter dreamed of, the two men had waved her apologies aside and sworn themselves to her service once more.

            Lord Manderly’s sons, Ser Wylis and Ser Wendel, had done their part, too, keeping her company and making her laugh. Both men were wide enough of girth to make her pity their horses on the hard march to the west, but she didn’t care. Catelyn Stark was, for a brief time, Catelyn Tully again, a little girl who loved the songs and believed the tales, and there were even fleeting moments when she could almost forget how horrid the dream had turned out to be.

            But then they caught sight of Moat Cailin. She had expected the host camped around the shattered fortress, expected the banners hanging from the towers, but as they reined in their horses and waited for the rider galloping towards them to arrive and tell them and the thousand-strong levy sweating and swearing along the road behind them where to go, she had held up a hand and shaded her eyes and spotted her son’s banner.

            Robb was residing in the Gatehouse Tower, she saw, since that was the only tower that flew the personal standard of the Stark of Winterfell. She sighed, pushing away the bitter tears, trying to ignore the words of the Mother’s Hymn.

 _Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_  
save our sons from war, we pray,  
stay the swords and stay the arrows,  
let them know a better day…

Long had she prayed to never know how painful those words were, but the day had arrived and it was so much worse than she could ever have imagined, worse even than when Ned had called the banners and marched off with the King to bring Balon Greyjoy to heel, _and that had been horrid,_ but what was done was done and she was _the Lady Stark_ and she would have to-

            _What is that other banner?_

“Ser Wylis, you see the Gatehouse Tower?”

            Ser Wylis shaded his own eyes and looked towards the west. “Which one, my lady?”

            She felt the ice cold fingers of simmering rage begin to creep up her spine. _Does he take me for a fool?_ She was a Tully, knew well the sound of a knight falling back upon his courtesies. “The one snapping in the breeze beside my son’s.”

            “Oh.” _He knows_ , she knew in an instant. _He knows what that banner is, and what it means, but he is loathe to say._ She almost wanted to hug him. _Almost._ Catelyn had spent eight-and-ten years in the North, amongst the rough _barely worth the name_ courtesies of even the highest born northern lords, but here was a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms trying to soften a blow, and it was almost sweet. **_Almost._** “It…um…well…”

            She put him out of his misery. She was angrier than she had been since she had walked into Winterfell’s nursery and seen a blue-eyed babe in the crib, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to take it out upon the good-natured knight. _Not when there are other, far better targets._ “It looks like a white direwolf, running across an ebon field, only from left-to-right, instead of right-to-left, as is usual.”

            “Aye, my lady,” Ser Wylis choked out, his horse groaning as he shifted in his saddle, “it would appear so.”

            “And would my lord happen to know why a bastard’s arms fly beside my son’s?” she asked, carefully couching her words in the softest of southern courtesies. _Mother would be proud._

            “Well, um, my lady…well…”

            The rage was no longer simmering, and no longer cold. _Damn you, Ned. **Damn you.**_ “My lord husband’s bastard son marches with mine own trueborn son.”

            Ser Wylis gulped, _hard,_ looked to his brother Ser Wendel, saw no aid, and turned back to her, bowed low in his saddle. “My lord father-“

            “Told you to keep the knowledge from me,” she said, cutting him off. Catelyn took a deep breath, let it out, and wrapped the reins of her horse tight enough around her hand that her fingers were tingling within moments. “It appears my son has taken leave of his senses. Pray excuse me, ser.”

            She didn’t wait for a response, just kicked her spurs into the flanks of her horse and galloped down the hill. The rider coming up from Moat Cailin gaped at her as she thundered past but did nothing to stop her.

            That was good. Catelyn knew her lady mother was safe up above in the warm embrace of the Mother and the Maid, and it would not have done for the Lady Minisa Whent to find out just how many foul words her eldest daughter knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy, this is gonna be good.
> 
> Catelyn is definitely one of the more complex characters in ASOIAF, especially in the books, where she doesn't have the benefit of being played by Michelle Fairley. Book!Catelyn really does have a tendency to come across as a deeply unpleasant person, and the Red Wedding cut her off before she had a chance at some real character development. In this story, she's going to go through a lot of character development; her arc is probably one of my top five faves, assuming that one of you doesn't make a really good suggestion in the comments and derail my plans like on of you did last week. I don't want to give too much away, but suffice to say that she's going to end up being forced to see Jon for who he is, outside of the box she's spent his whole life shoving him into.
> 
> And then there's that other little revelation lurking down the line...
> 
> (By the way, I'm not kidding about how much Show!Catelyn benefits from her actress. Michelle Fairley brings a genuine warmth and empathy to the role, two things that are often sadly lacking in Catelyn's POV chapters. The whole scene between Catelyn and Talisa? Genius. At the risk of going on a tangent, this is something my wife and I like to call The Meryl Streep Effect. We got the name from the differences between the book and movie versions of The Devil Wears Prada. In the book, Miranda Priestly is, without a doubt, a bad person, no holds barred, no excuses made. But then you make a movie and give the part to Meryl Streep and suddenly it's easy to forget many of Priestly's...shall we say...more problematic personality traits. 
> 
> But I digress.)
> 
> This AN is getting far too long and I've spent half of it talking about The Devil Wears Prada, so let's get a move on, shall we? 
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, Robb confronts his mother. Stay tuned!


	20. Robb

WOLVES AND FISH AND LIONS WERE SCATTERED ABOUT THE MAP SPREAD ACROSS THE TABLE, AND TWO ROADS LAY BEFORE HIM. Robb studied the animals, the crudely carved figures marking the latest dispositions according to the latest ravens from the south. It seemed that, as soon as word had come that the North was on the march and that Lord Renly was in Highgarden, Tywin Lannister had struck. A weakened riverlands host had been shattered by the Kingslayer beneath the Golden Tooth, where Lord Vance had been slain. Lord Piper had led what remained back to Riverrun, where Robb’s uncle Edmure Tully had marshaled fresh troops, all in vain. The Tully host had been shattered again, Uncle Edmure was a captive, the Kingslayer had Riverrun under siege, and Tywin Lannister was cutting a swath of fire and blood across the riverlands in his march towards the Trident, apparently seeking to put an army between Robb and any potential help from his aunt in the Vale. No word came from Highgarden, Dragonstone and Lord Stannis were silent, and Dorne seemed to be biding its time.

            Which left Robb and twenty thousand northmen, trying to figure out what to do.

            _And it all depends on me…_

Robb turned from the table, looking over his shoulder at where Theon lounged against a handy wall. “What say you, Theon?” he asked, smiling. He didn’t feel like smiling, but he knew he had to. _Confident, cool, collected._

_If I pretend I know what I’m doing, mayhaps I eventually will._

Theon flashed one of his infamous smiles, the smiles that Robb was beginning to doubt. Theon was his friend, but he remembered how casually Theon had loosed the arrow that could have killed Bran in the wolfswood. Aye, the arrow had struck true, but it was a risk Theon shouldn’t have taken. _Jon always said you were an ass,_ Robb had snapped at the time, and now Jon sat at Robb’s right hand, brooding over the map as only his brother could, and Robb was beginning to wonder if his brother had had a point through all those years.

            “I say strike hard, strike fast, kill them all,” Theon said, grinning from ear-to-ear, “and let the gods sort them out.”

            “The boy’s a kraken,” Lord Umber bellowed, “but he has the truth of it!” The Greatjon pumped a fist in the air and led a cheer from the gathered lords, while Robb marveled at the change in the man. A few weeks before, Lord Umber had threatened to take his levies home if he didn’t get his way, but then Grey Wind and Ghost had growled and snarled and Jon had stood beside Robb and now Lord Umber was Robb’s staunchest supporter.

_There are other voices, though…_

Robb turned to Lord Bolton. Robb had little love for the Leech Lord; Roose Bolton was hard and cold, his eyes paler than stone and darker than milk, chips of ice in a face that might as well have been carved from granite. Father had told Robb to always keep an eye on the Lord of the Dreadfort, but Father had also admitted that Lord Bolton was as clever and wily as they came, nevermind that the Bolton contribution to the host was second only to the Karstarks. Robb could not easily cast aside the Leech Lord’s counsel.

            “The aggressive course has its merits,” Lord Bolton admitted, in that flat, emotionless voice of his, as hard and cold as his eyes, “but our goal is to force the Lannisters to negotiate. Some delicacy is called for.”

            “Fuck delicacy!” Lord Umber called, to a roar of cheers.

            Robb liked the sound of that, _it felt good,_ but Father had oft told him that _being lord_ rarely felt good, so Robb turned right, to his brooding brother, and said, “Jon? What say you?”

            Jon pursed his lips and frowned, reaching out to fiddle with one of the carved wolves clustered around Moat Cailin on the map before saying, “Mayhaps there is a middle course. Riverrun begs for aid, and we must answer, but Lord Bolton has the truth of it.”

            Robb nodded, turned on the Leech Lord. “My brother has a point. Caution is called for, but we need a strong position if we are to negotiate the release of my father and my sisters, and for _that,_ we need victories.”

            Lord Bolton tapped a finger against his chin. “Yes, I can see that…though-“

            “ _My lord!_ ”

            Robb looked up, saw a travel-stained man standing in the doorway to the room. “Yes?” he asked, though his heart started to sink.

            He knew what the man was about to say.

            He had been dreading this ever since he had sent that raven to Castle Black.

            The man snapped off a quick bow before answering. “The Lady Stark is without, m’lord, and begs an audience.”

            Robb felt his brother stiffen and tried not to groan. _Well, here it is, I suppose._ “Lead her in,” he said to the man, before turning to his lords. **_My_** _lords. Gods help me._ “My lords, I pray you will excuse me…?”

            “You heard the man!” Lord Umber thundered. “On your feet and move your arses!” The gathered lords stood and bowed and filed out, one after the other, Lord Umber last, pausing to speak to the woman who could only have been Robb’s mother. Robb heard snatches of the conversation, bits like _Tywin Lannister’s bunghole_ and _free Ned,_ but he pushed the noise out of his mind, turning to his right as Jon stood and began to head for the door.

            “Not you, Jon.”

            Jon froze in place, heaved a deep sigh, turned to Robb. “This won’t be pretty,” Jon said, looking everywhere but at Robb’s face.

            Robb reached out, seized his brother by the shoulder. _My brother. It’s not his fault. It was never his fault. I don’t know about any of the other decisions I have made, but I know this one was right._ “No,” Robb admitted, “it won’t, but I won’t have Mother sending you off to hide in corners, not anymore.”

            Jon set his jaw, and Robb did not miss how his brother’s left hand compulsively opened and closed on the hilt of his sword. “Listen, Robb, mayhaps if I moved out of the Gatehouse Tower and took that stupid banner down-“

            Robb cut him off with a raised hand. “I don’t want to hear it.” Robb had had just about enough of Jon’s objections to the banner Robb had ordered made. “You’re my brother, and you’re here, where you belong, _with your banner_. Sit, and stay.”      

            Robb knew Jon would not have wanted him to notice the look of relief and joy that rippled across Jon’s face, so Robb ignored it and convinced himself that he had seen nothing of the sort. “If you want, Robb.”

            Robb gave his brother’s shoulder a final squeeze, and turned to face the room, turned to find that it was empty, empty save for the table and the maps and the carved wolves and lions and fish…

            _Empty save for Mother…_

Robb had thought that no face could be as devoid of emotion as Roose Bolton’s.

            Robb was distressed to look upon his own mother’s face and discover that he was wrong.

            “Mother,” he said, bowing.

            Mother did not return the bow, keeping her eyes locked on Robb’s. “Leave us, Jon,” she said without even looking at him.

            Jon began to rise, but Robb, stifling an annoyed groan, set a hand upon his brother’s back and forced him back into his seat. “Jon stays.”

            Mother’s eyes widened, and her nostrils flared. “I was under the impression that your father’s son had gone to take the black.”

            Robb’s hand was still on his brother’s back, so he felt the flinch. “He was,” Robb replied, “but I called him back before he had taken his vows.”

            “The Watch is a good place for a bastard,” Mother snapped, her voice cold and drained of emotion.

            Beneath Robb’s hand, Jon flinched again, _harder this time,_ and Robb felt his heart harden. “Mayhaps, but it’s a poor place for a Stark.”

            Rage flashed in Mother’s eyes. “He is no Stark.”

            Robb tightened his grip on his brother’s shoulder, set his jaw and met his mother glare-for-glare. “I say he is.”

            “You know what bastards are?”

            “I know what the septons say.”

            “They are abominations, born of lust and lies and weakness.”

            “Tell me which of those sins Jon is guilty of, and I will punish him accordingly, or is the Mother’s Mercy really so thin?”

            Mother flinched. Robb felt a stab of guilt; he did not worship the Seven, but his mother did, and he had just flung gods he did not believe back in her face.

            He pushed the qualms aside. He was the Stark in Winterfell, his lord father’s trueborn heir. If he could not stand up to his mother, what hope did he have of bringing Tywin Lannister to heel?

            “This isn’t about Jon,” Mother said, her voice just as hard, though Robb did not fail to miss the doubt that rippled across her face.

            “Good,” he said, giving his brother’s shoulder a final squeeze and letting him go. “Then the discussion is at an end, and we can move on to more worthy topics.”

            “More worthy?” Mother snapped. “Have you forgotten the Blackfyres?”

            “How could I? You browbeat Maester Luwin into making me memorize those tales.”

            “As caution, a reminder of what _bastards_ are.”

            “Faithless, yes?” Robb did not know where the words came from; it was as if a dam had broken, deep in his heart, and words tumbled out in a flood, words he longed to say to his mother, _aye, even to Father,_ words that had roared in his head when he had watched flakes of summer snow melt in his brother’s hair in the yard of Winterfell on the day when Robb believed that he might never see his brother again, _words that had burned white hot in his heart until he had ordered Maester Luwin to write the letter that should never have needed to be sent._ “And yet, so many trueborn sons marched in Daemon Blackfyre’s host at the Redgrass Field, and he himself was slain by another bastard, Lord Blackraven, who kept loyal and true. And mayhaps we should mention Aegor Rivers?”

            “Another traitor,” Mother snarled.

            “To one king, but to his chosen king? _He was loyal unto the grave_. **_Beneath the gold, the bittersteel_** _._ Bittersteel was loyal _beyond_ death, while Blackraven ended up on the Wall, punishment for crimes committed out of his own loyalty. It seems that bastards are no different from any other man.”

            “His existence is a slap to my face.”

            “That is between you and Father and the gods; Jon has committed no crime beyond being born, and I am not aware of any man or woman who was ever asked about that.” He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair. “I won’t discuss this anymore, Mother. Jon has been loyal and true; Father’s sins are not his fault. My _brother_ came when called, came to the aid of his family,” _a family put in danger at least in part by your own precipitous actions,_ Robb thought, but did not say; he could not quite see what pointing that out would accomplish, so he didn’t. “He’s here to do his duty to House Stark. I mean, for the love of the gods, Mother, he’s here to _help.”_

            “And I’m just so supposed to accept that?” Mother snapped, her words trembling with emotions Robb could not begin to guess at. “I’m just supposed to be happy and cheerful?”

            Robb shrugged; he was tiring of this drama. “I don’t much care how you feel. With Father in a cell beneath the Red Keep, I’m the head of House Stark, and as your liege lord, I’ve made a decision, and that decision is _final._ Continue to hate a motherless child if you want, but this discussion is _over._ ”

            Robb was prepared for a lot of things. He was prepared for his mother’s rage, had even dreamed of his mother’s acceptance.

            He was not prepared for his mother’s face to shrivel up and crumple, was not prepared for a single tear to trickle down her cheek, was not prepared for her to sniff as she wiped the tear away, nodded, and said, “Very well. What is the situation? Ser Wylis hinted that it was dire.”

            Robb felt like he was trying to talk to Rickon again. He didn’t know what to do, so he sighed and leaned over the map spread across the table and told his mother what she wanted to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, that was...that was a straight up fire in the circus, right? Because it was in tents?!?! 
> 
> Anyone, anyone...? Bueller...?
> 
> Why yes I'm a dad; why do you ask?
> 
> Anyhoo, sorry for the late update. You guys made a lot of really good suggestions, some of them so good I ended up working them in over the course of yesterday and today as I edited this. I really wanted to be fair to everyone involved, even those like Catelyn who is just...all kinds of wrong. Those of you who pointed out that part of Catelyn's problem is that she never really stopped being a southerner hit the nail on the head. After all, if you consider how the North basically endures a famine during any winter that lasts longer than a 2-3 years, then it makes sense that they're somewhat more chill with bastards than the South is. A culture born of an environment like that would value survival and family unity above all else, for practical reasons if nothing else.
> 
> For those playing the home game, Robb's speech about bastards being no different from any other man is adapted (somewhat) from a speech on the same topic given by Dunk in The Hedge Knight, part of a series of three short stories/novellas by GRRM that you all really should read, in their comic adaptation form if nothing else.
> 
> Also, as usual, all credit goes to my wife, who very pointedly reminded me that it was Monday this morning.
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, Howland Reed thinks upon his secrets. Stay tuned!


	21. Meera

GREYWATER WATCH WAS NOT LIKE MOST CASTLES; INDEED, IT WAS BARELY A CASTLE AT ALL. For one thing, it moved; for another, it had no maester, no knights, not even a master-at-arms. It was just _a place,_ the seat of the current _Lord Reed,_ the home of House Reed, nothing more, just wobbly towers built on platforms lashed together atop a crannog deep in the swamps of the Neck, moving from place-to-place. It suited the crannogmen to let the rest of the world believe that such movement was random, but Meera was the daughter of Lord Reed, and she knew better, knew that such movement was anything _but_ random.

            For all of that, it was still the seat of House Reed, the house that ruled over the swamps for the Starks in Winterfell during all the millennia since the crannogmen had bent the knee, which meant that the Lord Reed needed a place to conduct his business, and it was there that Meera found her father.

            In what passed for a solar in the depths of the Neck, seated on the floor, a sword-shaped bundle laid across his knees as he sat before an open chest that Meera only needed a passing glance to know had cost more than all of Greywater Watch put together, and then some.

            “Was Jon there?” her father asked, his voice distant, tremulous, _pained._

It hurt Meera, to hear that pain. She was seven-and-ten, old enough to know that adults were not sacrosanct gods, but still young enough to be shaken when reminded that her parents were human, too. She took a deep breath, slowly let it out, before she answered.

            “Yes,” she said, walking over to a handy chair and settling herself into it. “Jon Snow was there, at Lord Robert’s right hand. Lady Stark stood behind his left shoulder, his lords were arrayed around him, but his brother sat in the place of honor.”

            Father nodded, short, sharp. “Good. That is where Jon should have been all along; the Wall was a mistake. I told Ned so, when he and the King stopped here on their way South, but Ned told me _what is done is done,_ and that was that.” Father sighed, ran his hand up and down the bundle in his lap. “At least _that_ mistake has been rectified, if nothing else.”

            Meera looked away. For as long as she could remember, she had known that Mother and Father carried the terrible burden of an impossible secret, something she could barely comprehend, something she could never know. Once, she had imagined that she would learn that secret, or at least be able to understand it, but age had brought no wisdom.

            _Even Jojen doesn’t know. All he’ll say is that it’s not our secret to learn, not our secret to tell._ The thought filled Meera with barely repressed rage. _What good is your **greensight,** if it can’t even relieve Mother and Father of this burden? _she had raged when he’d told her that.

            Jojen had just shrugged and looked towards the horizon. _That’s a good question, Sister,_ he had said. _That’s a very good question._

            That had been three years ago, and Meera was no closer to finding her brother’s point.

            “Ned charged your mother and I with a secret once,” Father said, still running his hand up-and-down the bundle.

            Meera could only nod; she didn’t know what else to do. “Yes, Father.”

            Father sighed. “He charged us with a secret, and with this chest, itself full of secrets.”

            Meera looked at the chest. She had seen it before, but never open. She couldn’t help but feel disappointed; she had imagined fabulous riches, but now saw only bundles and cloths and tomes and the space left by the sword-shaped bundle in Father’s lap.

            The only thing she had ever known for sure about the chest was that it had something to do with the Targaryens. Why else would a bloodred dragon be carved so intricately across its lid?

            “Who called Jon off the Wall?”

            Meera came out of her thoughts with a shocked _snap,_ tore her gaze away from the chest, found herself facing Father’s eyes boring into her. She swallowed hard, steeled herself before answering. “The Young Wolf, Father.”

            Father nodded, pursed his lips. “Not Ned?”

            Meera shook her head. “No, Father; the rumors were very clear on that. If it had been Lord Stark, Lady Stark might have been happier…I think.”

            Father nodded, turned his gaze back to the bundle. “Or maybe not…poor woman. She thought she was furious with her husband before, it will be worse once she learns the truth.”

            Meera frowned. “What truth, Father?”

            Father sighed. “ _If only I could tell you…”_ Another sigh, and Meera watched, her heart sinking, as Father seemed to take on another gross of weight upon his shoulders. “ _If only Ned had called Jon back…_ ” Slowly, Father rose, carefully laying the bundle back into the chest. With slow, careful movements, as if every act caused him pain, Father closed the chest, locked it, and began to shove the chest back into its hiding place, deep in a corner, under a time-battered rug. “Point is,” Father said, as he fiddled with the rug, “Ned’s instructions were clear and our vow was solemn, so your mother and I must bear the secret a little longer.

            “And besides,” Father said, turning back to Meera with a thin smile upon his face, a smile that did not reach his sad, burdened eyes, “mayhaps some southern lord will take a long look at the boy and put us all out of our misery.” Father turned away once more, closed his eyes, and sighed. “It would all have been for naught then, but at least it will be over.”

            For reasons Meera could not begin to explain, those words were the saddest sounds she had ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's nothing worse than a secret, is there? Especially an impossible secret sealed by an equally impossible vow.
> 
> I'm mostly going to let this one stand for itself. It is, after all, filled to bursting with foreshadowing, and foreshadowing works best when you don't linger on it.
> 
> I will say one thing, though: I'm not going to pretend that I'm more clever than you guys are. A lot of you have already guessed a lot, because you're a pretty smart bunch. I will, however, ask that you guys get a little less...specific...in your predictions. It's getting eerie in those comments!
> 
> Though if your comments/reviews prove anything, it's that fanfic readers are anything but dumb. Eat that, judgmental assholes of the world.
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, we pop back up to Winterfell for a little lighthearted relief before this story starts to get a bit heavy. Stay tuned!


	22. Bran

HE WAS BREAKING HIS FAST WHEN RICKON CAME BOUNDING IN, SHAGGYDOG AT HIS HEELS.

            “Good morning, Bran!” Rickon shouted as he ran to Bran’s bed and leaped up onto it, landing hard enough to make Bran’s tray jump. Bran tried not to wince at Rickon’s volume; Rickon seemed to have decided that, after spending so much time after Mother’s departure in sullen silence, it was best to make up for lost time by shouting everything. “Can we go riding today?”

            In her corner, Old Nan tutted over her knitting needles, while Shaggydog and Summer tussled at the foot of Bran’s bed. “So loud today, young master,” she said, in her soft, wizened voice. “Haven’t you heard about what happened to the little boy who wouldn’t stop shouting all the time?”

            Rickon rolled his eyes and huffed. “ _A thousand times,_ Nan.”

            Old Nan tutted some more, her needles going _clack-clack-clack._ Not for the first time, Bran found himself wondering what it was she was always knitting. Even Theon had confessed ignorance, the one time Bran had put the question to him, and Theon made a habit out of pretending to know everything. “Oh, I highly doubt that you’ve heard it a _thousand_ times. I doubt even your lord father has heard the tale that often.”

            Rickon rounded on the old woman, a look of annoyance writ plain upon his face. “Of course not,” he shot back, “I was just exa…exa…exager…uh…Bran?”

            “You were exaggerating,” Bran supplied, before washing down a bite of toast with his morning milk.

            Rickon gave Bran a happy smile and a choppy nod before turning back to Old Nan. “Right, I was _exaggerating,_ ” the last word said with a scrunched up face and heavy emphasis on each syllable.

            It was just then that Osha came sliding into the room, red-faced and out of breath. She skidded to a halt, gave Bran a ragged, stiff-backed bow. “M’lord,” she said, looking as if the word pained her, before nodding first at Old Nan and then at Hodor, who loomed in the corner of the room, looking almost thoughtful with his crossed arms and blank face. “Nan, Hodor.”

            “Hodor,” was Hodor’s reply, while his great-grandmother frowned at Osha and muttered, “Young lady.”

            “Happy to see you, too, old hag,” Osha shot back, smiling from ear-to-ear, before rounding on Rickon. “And as for _you,_ little lord, what have I told you about running off?”

            Rickon put on his most innocent smile. “Um…not to?”

            “And you could’ve hurt your brother, too,” Osha continued, sounding remarkably like Mother, “hopping on him like that.”

            Rickon, to Bran’s shock, looked somewhat ashamed. _Well, maybe not **ashamed** , _Bran thought, _but something similar._ “ _I didn’t land on him…”_

“Aye,” Osha admitted, “but you could’ve. Don’t be doing none of that, or the old man will have me back in chains.”

            Bran winced. Osha still wore cuffs around her wrists and ankles, though the chains had been removed when it became clear that she was the only one who could contain Rickon, and besides, as Jon himself had pointed out to Robb, _Where is she supposed to go?_ Bran had wanted even the cuffs struck off, but Maester Luwin had overruled him. _She’s still a wildling, Bran,_ Luwin had said, _and she needs the reminder that she’s not yet fully trusted._ Bran had replied that he felt she had more than proved herself in that regard, but then Maester Luwin had sighed and shaken his head. _She did attack you in the wolfswood, remember?_

 _That was her friends, not her,_ Bran had said, feeling truculent. _She wanted to leave me be, but they didn’t listen to her._ Maester Luwin had admitted Bran’s point, before reminding him that the cuffs remained until Robb sent word otherwise, and that had been that.

            It had been one more reminder that, for all that Bran was _the Stark in Winterfell,_ everyone still saw him as little more than a boy. It had rankled, made him more determined than ever to see Osha’s free of iron cuffs. _And besides…_

_You tell him this, m’lord. You tell him he’s bound on marching the wrong way. It’s north he should be taking his swords. North, not south._

Bran just couldn’t quite manage to shake the feeling that the wildling woman knew more than all of them put together.

            “Bran!”

            Bran gave himself a shake, turned to his brother. “Yes, Rickon?”

            Rickon crawled up the bed, propped himself against the pile of pillows at Bran’s back, and stole a piece of toast off Bran’s tray. “Osha was talking to you.”

            Bran frowned, turned to Osha. _Wool gathering again._ Maester Luwin was often telling him of the danger of _being too much in one’s thoughts,_ that Bran’s dreams, both sleeping and waking, were little more than the result of an _overactive imagination coupled with too much time indoors._ Bran hoped the maester was right. _And that Osha is wrong._ “I’m sorry, Osha,” he said, dipping his head in apology, “I was leagues away. What was that?”

            Osha smiled, but her eyes seemed distant to Bran, thoughtful. The expression set him on edge, like it always did. “I was just asking how m’lord was today.”

            Bran shrugged off his dark thoughts and his musings. “Oh, I’m alright. Thought I might ride today, get some sun.” Bran wanted nothing of the sort, but Rickon had asked and it would make Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik Cassel happy.

            “And I can ride, too, right?” Rickon demanded.

            Bran turned to frown at his brother. “I thought you weren’t going to ride anymore. I thought there was no point, since Mother and Father were gone and _no one ever comes back from the south._ ”

            Rickon shrugged, finishing his stolen toast and making a grab for Bran’s eggs, a grab fended off with a jab of Bran’s fork. “Well, everything’s going to be alright now, right? Robb’s gone after Mum, and Jon’s gone with him. Jon will know what to do, Jon will keep Robb safe.”

            Old Nan made a sound of stern disapproval, to which Bran responded with an ugly glare. Rickon had always held Jon in high regard, higher even than he held Robb; Bran didn’t want Old Nan’s disapproval of bastards bringing his brother down. _Not when we’ve just now gotten him back to normal._ “Yes,” Bran said, still glaring at Old Nan, _for all the good it does,_ “Jon will keep Robb safe.”

            “Aye, that was good,” Osha said, “the Young Wolf calling your brother back. Brothers should be together, they should.”

            _Yes,_ Bran thought, feeling his first smile of the day form, _they should._

He and Rickon rode around the yard all through the morning, straight through to midday supper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was fun! Enjoy it; shit's gonna get pretty heavy for a while.
> 
> So, a bunch of you have asked a bunch of questions, and I'm the WORST at responding to shit in a timely manner. If you want quick responses, hit me up on Twitter @Historybuff2013. 
> 
> Anyhoo, questions. A couple have asked me when I'm going to post. To that, I say, "Every Monday and Thursday." If you want a time, I've got two kids; the chapters go up when they go up. Promising a specific time would just make a liar of me.
> 
> Also, am I using the books or the show? I'm using both as it pleases me; that's why I tagged both. At this point, we're still in the part of the series where the show cleaved pretty close to the books; shit, I'm still more-or-less following the books' timeline. Like I said at the beginning, the changes are still rippling out. 
> 
> Also, sometimes I'm going to use my own personal headcanon, because, hey, this is fanfiction, right?
> 
> Finally, several of you made really good suggestions. Shame on you for being so goddamn clever.
> 
> Anyhoo, that's all for today. It's Cuddle Time with the wife, and I hope you enjoyed today's little breather.
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, we head back up to the Wall. Stay tuned!


	23. Samwell

“READ THIS.”

            Sam reared back, looking, he was sure, like a particularly dull fish. “Um...hello, Grenn. Read what?”

            Grenn - who, after all, _and Sam felt that this was important,_ was the one who had kicked open _Sam’s_ door in the middle of the night - muttered something Sam didn’t catch under his breath and shoved the book in his hand even closer to Sam’s face, until the thick-necked Ranger could have used Sam’s nose to clean the cover. “ _This,_ ” he repeated, “read _this._ What else would I want you to read?”

            “Your family history?” Pyp offered, stepping into view from behind Grenn. “Oh, and good morning, Sam.”

            “But I don’t have one of those,” Grenn pointed out, brow furrowed.

            “Nevermind all that,” Sam said, cutting off Pyp’s reply. He took the book from Grenn, laid it in his lap as he pulled himself upright in his bed. “It’s morning?”

            Pyp towards the window, walked over to it, and threw open the shutters. Sam gasped, the last dregs of the sleep the crash of Grenn’s foot into his door had interrupted being swept away with the sharp bite of the night air. “Morning,” Pyp said, gesturing towards a pitch-black sky pocked with glittering stars, “evening, who cares?”

            _“I care,”_ Sam muttered under his breath. He groaned, rubbed his eyes, shivered, irritation crawling up his spine as his teeth began to chatter. Not for the first time of late, he found himself wondering what he could possibly have done to deserve such a bizarre, frustrating week. First the bodies, then helping drag the bodies back through the Wall, the endless questions and the gossip and the rumors and the Lord Commander commanding everyone to silence - _for all the good it did -_ and now _this,_ awakened in the middle of the night and commanded by two of his best friends to read something. _How am I even supposed to-_

His eyes shot to his friends, and for the first time he saw that they were both holding candles. _Ah._ “You two thought of everything, didn’t you?” he said.

            Grenn shrugged. “Like I said, we need you to read this.”

            Sam turned to Pyp. “I thought you could read.”

            Pyp shrugged. “There’s reading and then there’s reading, yeah? Give me a song sheet or ask me to write my own name, and I’m your man. But that…?” he finished, gesturing vaguely at the book in Sam’s lap.

            Sam sighed and picked the book up. “ _A Collection of Northern Lore and Superstitions,_ ” he read, tilting the book towards the flicking light of his friends’ candles. _It does look rather formidable._ “ _By Maester Endrew.”_

            Grenn shot forward until he was practically cheek-to-cheek with Sam, the sudden movement sending their shadows dancing across the walls in a way Sam could only call _vaguely grotesque._ “What’s that? Is that important?”

            Before Sam could answer, Grenn was gone, yanked back to a respectable distance by Pyp. “It’s just the title and the name of the maester who wrote it,” Pyp explained, in a tone that spoke of an evening of such minor explanations. “Now, give the man room, and let him work.”

            “Sorry, Sam,” Grenn said, looking abashed.

            Sam waved the apology away, turning back to the book. “Don’t worry about it. Now, did you want me to read the whole book, or was there something in particular?”

            “Could you read the whole book?” Grenn asked, astonished.

            “By the Seven,” Pyp groaned, “our Sam’s a lord, remember? Taught all proper by a maester and everything. Of _course,_ he can read a whole book. And it’s about halfway through, Sam.”

            Sam nodded, hoping the candles weren’t bright enough to reveal the blush he felt at Pyp’s compliment and Grenn’s awestruck expression. “Right, right…” He flipped to the middle and found himself at the mid-point of some old legend which, judging from the astoundingly vivid illustrations, involved warriors fighting some hideous beast. “What exactly am I looking for?”

            “You’ll know it when you see it.”

            Something about the tone of Pyp’s voice made Sam’s blood run cold. He turned from the book, looked up, watched the candlelight dance across his friends’ faces. He saw no laugh, no joke, no amusement.

            “It’s serious then,” he said. 

            It wasn’t a question, but both boys nodded nonetheless.

            He gave a nod of his own, and began to turn the pages, slowly, carefully, mind racing, desperately trying to recall anything he could about Maester Endrew. _He must’ve been a northern maester,_ he decided. _Otherwise, I would’ve heard of him. The Citadel has always had a queer prejudice against work produced by maesters from the-_

His thoughts skidded to a halt, and suddenly the night’s wind didn’t seem so cold anymore.

            “I think he’s found it,” Pyp said into the silence.

            _Yes,_ Sam thought, _I think I have._

            It was the illustrations that made him shiver, that made his blood run cold as ice. They were startling, vivid, the product of the kind of skill not found more than once in a lifetime. The images almost seemed to _move,_ the mark of a true master, the kind who knew how to make their work come _alive_ in the flicking light of a candle late at night.

            _And the things in those pictures…_

The were three on the pages open on Sam’s lap. The first showed what could only be a dead body, horror writ plain on the faces of the men who had just stumbled upon it. In the second, the body rose, alive but dead, its eyes wide open to reveal a stunning, unhuman blue. At its feet was one of the men who had found it, his neck twisted in a way that made bile rise at the back of Sam’s throat, and through its body was what could only have been the man’s sword. The sword’s point was visible sticking out of the thing’s back, and the tip of that point dripped blood black as ink.

            It was hard to look away from the thing’s face. It was horrid, the eyes chilling, the visible veins as black as the blood dripping from the sword through its body. Somehow, the eyes were the worst, even worse than the dead man at its feet, worse than the black blood in its veins, worse than the sword that should have killed it.

            It had something to do with the blue, but Sam could figure it out. It made his head hurt, so he tore his eyes away to the third image.

            It was something of a letdown after the horror of the first. The thing was on fire now, its mouth open in a wailing scream, but it was obviously doomed, or else the torch-bearing men surrounding it would not have looked so relieved.

            “What does it say?” Grenn asked, his tone desperate and pleading.

            Sam looked back to the top of the left page, motioning for Pyp to move behind him, the better to use the light.

            He did his best not to look at the first two pictures anymore.

            “Most of it is…well…” Sam sighed, closed his eyes, rubbed them, opened them again. “Sorry, whoever Maester Endrew was, he was more Citadel than most. It’s the usual dry, staid prose, _thus the tales have it,_ or _thus another legend has it,_ or even the occasional _of course this cannot be taken seriously by educated men._ ” He paused, leaned closer, focused on the text that followed the third picture. “Except for this bit…this…” He closed his eyes once more, shut them tight, watched strange colors swirl and crash across the blackness behind his eyelids. _That…_

_That can’t be…_

“What?” Pyp prodded, poking Sam in the shoulder. “Don’t keep us in suspense! You’re being more dramatic than Dareon right now.”

            Sam gave himself a shake, opened his eyes, and bent close.

            “Here, Endrew is quoting someone or…I don’t know, something else, he’s very clear about that, is at pains to make clear that this is not his writing, no matter. He says it’s an excerpt from a very old legend, _added here only to provide some flavor of the histrionics of the legends of the First Men._ ”

            “Thank the Seven Jon isn’t here to hear _that,_ ” Grenn said.

            Sam nodded, pressed on.

            “Right, here it begins:

            “ _Beware the man who goes to sleep with eyes of brown but awakes with eyes of blue. He is no longer what he once was, but a servant of the Enemy. He will move with a will that is not his own, for he has no will anymore, is nothing more than the puppet of the Enemy. Beware him, for no weapon of Man’s making can return him to the dark. Slay him with the steel of dragons or the glass of the Children or with the fire that was the first gift of the gods, but try not the weapons of Man, for it will lead only to your doom.”_

Sam stopped. That was all on the page, but the quote was not done.

            He would have to turn the page.

            “Have you…” He paused, swallowed, _hard._ “Have either of you…seen what was on the next page?”

            “No,” answered Pyp. “The shit right there is quite frightening enough, thank you very bloody much.”

            _Yes,_ Sam thought, _it is._

He turned the page.

            He could not quite describe what he saw. It took up the top half of the page, and it was obvious the artist had poured all his skill and all his imagination into the image. It showed…a man, no, _a thing,_ a thing made of ice and shadows. In its hand was a spear unlike any Sam had ever seen, its face was hard and cruel, and its eyes…

            _Its eyes were blue, inhuman, and full of **hate.**_

            “ _Beware the man who goes to sleep with eyes of brown but awakes with eyes of blue,_ ” he read. “ _He can be defeated, but never forget, Warrior of the Dawn, that the dead are but servants of the True Enemy._

 _“They are but puppets of the Other._ ”

            He slammed the book shut, tossed onto the end of the bed, turned to look at his friends. Somehow, he knew that his face was a pale and frightened as their own.

            “We have to see the Lord Commander,” he said.

            “Aye,” they chorused back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, funny story...I basically spent today (when my boys let me) rewriting not just this chapter, but the next four (and I ain't done yet). It's been pretty crazy. That said, I really like the result. I hope you do, too.
> 
> Also, real quick, I was not able to proofread this as much as I usually do, mostly because of the day spent in feverish rewrites. With that in mind, please be kind.
> 
> For those playing the home game, the genesis of today's chapter lies in, What would Sam, Pyp, and Grenn be up to, if they didn't have to worry about Jon getting into fights with Alliser Thorne? The answer, is this! Hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, Jon has a heart-to-heart (of a sort) with the Lady Stark. Stay tuned!


	24. Jon

“I HAD A FEELING THIS FIRE WAS YOURS.”

            For a moment, Jon didn’t respond. He had ridden out here to be alone, after all, to _breathe,_ to brood upon his thoughts and his day and his worries as only he could. He had chosen his spot well, just beyond the edge of the light cast by the hundred-hundred fires of his brother’s army, had hobbled his horse at the foot of the tallest hill he could find, trudged up to the summit carrying two packs, one containing some food and drink, the other dry kindling and his flints. He had made his little camp, lit his fire, munched on his bread and sipped his ale, looked up at the stars, and breathed. It was hard to breathe with the army, to smell anything clean and fresh through the thick miasma of piss and shit and horses and unwashed humanity, but here, he was upwind, a light, cool breeze filled with the smell of trees and grass and thousand-thousand scents of the North on his face. There was even a faint musk of swamp and bog brought down from the Neck, but Jon didn’t mind. It was nice, it was clean, and there was nary a Glover or an Umber to be seen.

            And then the voice spoke, and for a moment, he tried to ignore it.

            A deep, heavy sigh came from the direction of the voice, and a muttered command, something that sounded like, _That will be all, go and wait with the horses,_ and mail clinked as a man bowed and Jon listened to the footfalls in the grass as the man strode away and that’s when he knew the voice was real, and who it belonged to.

            _Damn._

_Damn, damn, **damn.**_

He heaved himself up off the grass, turned around, and somehow, was not surprised. He had come out here to be alone, and yet, the last person he wanted to see had found him, and there she stood, tall and proud, as implacable as a cliff, as hard and unyielding as the Wall itself.

            He bowed, low, perfectly respectful. “Lady Stark.”

            He rose in time to catch a slight bow of her head. That rocked him. All his life, as far as he could remember, his father’s wife had alternated between dark indifference and subtle cruelty, but never once had she shown anything resembling courtesy. 

            _Until now._

It truly was a day of days.

            “Jon,” she said, gesturing at a spot by the fire. “May I join you?”

            At first, Jon hadn’t the faintest clue what to say. After eight-and-ten years of the coldest of cold shoulders, the Lady Stark was asking to join him by a fire in the middle of the night. It was bizarre bordering on farce, and all he could do for a few moments was gape at her. He was sure that he looked like a particularly stupid fish, but he couldn’t imagine what else to do beyond wait for Robb to tip him out of his cot and bring this outrageous dream to an end.

            Lady Stark frowned. “Surely I haven’t been _that_ cruel, Jon.”

            “You have, my lady.” The words leapt out of his throat and onto his tongue, gone before he even knew they were there. They roared out into the night, struck his brother’s mother across her face, and then they were gone, the property of the stars now, far out of reach. Lady Stark flinched, turned away, and Jon would have done anything to take them back.

            Not that he had the faintest idea why he should care how Lady Stark felt.

            He just did.

            “Yes, I have been, haven’t I?”

            Jon didn’t know what to say to _that,_ so he cleared his throat, ran a hand through his hair, and gestured at the grass by the fire. “You...um...well...you mentioned sitting, my lady.”

            She laughed, or, at least, made a sound that was something _like_ a laugh. “You are so much like your father it hurts sometimes, you know that?”

            He shrugged. “So I’ve been told, though not quite in those words.”

            “I would imagine not.” Another sigh, and then she was walking to the spot by the fire. “Well, I did ask to sit, didn’t I? And thank you, Jon, but that won’t be necessary,” this last to the hand Jon offered to help her to the ground. “I may be a soft southerner, but I’m perfectly capable of sitting without assistance.”

            “I’m not sure I’d call you _soft,_ my lady,” Jon said, settling himself down beside her.

            She gave him a smile, and it was almost genuine. “Why, I believe that was a compliment.”

            “It was a statement of fact, my lady. Soft women don’t seize sons of Tywin Lannister and toss them into cells.”

            Darkness stole of Lady Stark’s face, darkness and something akin to rage. “That last was not my doing. He should’ve been held in a manner befitting his station, and my sister never should’ve given him the chance get himself free.” Her expression grew darker, and she muttered something that sounded like, _knew that sellsword was trouble…_

            He turned away from her; he had never seen such a riot of emotions on her face, and it made him uncomfortable. He had long ago decided to believe that the Lady Stark was some sort of otherworldly being, incomprehensible, so far removed from being anything as pedestrian as _human_ to defy understanding. It was better that way; her glares didn’t hurt so bad then. “You still believe that Tyrion tried to kill Bran?”

            _It should’ve been you._ The last words Lady Stark had spoken to him before Moat Cailin, the cruelest and deepest cut of all, because Jon agreed with her and he hadn’t known how to make her understand that, so he hadn’t even tried, had said his piece to Bran and fled the room and raged in the darkest corners of his mind at the cruelty of the gods.

            The words hung there like a bad stench, and by unspoken agreement, they both ignored them.

            “No,” she finally said, after a long pause, “I don’t, but if we still had him, we could use him to trade for the girls and start negotiations.”

            Jon hadn’t thought of that, but now that he did, it made so much sense that it _hurt_ , and just like that, he hated Lysa Arryn.

            “How did it feel?”

            He turned away from the stars. “Pardon, my lady?”

            She pointed north, back towards where they had been camped that morning. “Helping my son kill those three men.”

            _Oh._

            Father had long ago explained the way of the world to Robb and Jon, had explained how war was terrible and cruel and that there was no avoiding it, that soldiers on campaign would expect a certain... _latitude,_ and that a wise commander chose a middle course between _discipline_ on the one hand and _turning a blind eye_ on the other. Jon hadn’t liked it, had never been more thankful for the fact that he would probably never command men on a campaign, but then Robb had called him back from the Wall and here he was, his brother’s right hand.

            The thieving wasn’t why the men had to die. They were in the river lands now, and Robb had made clear that there were to be no _excesses_ while they were in the lands of lords friendly to them, so if the men had just filled their bags with chickens and food and a few valuables, they would’ve lost a finger, received a good flogging, returned the goods, and that would’ve been the end of it.

            But the three thieves had stumbled upon the farmer’s daughter, and for that, they had to die, and because they were of the North, it was Robb’s responsibility to kick the stools out from under their feet.

            Jon had fixed the ropes around their necks, though. Theon said that was different from actually kicking the stools, but Jon couldn’t find much difference. Couldn’t find _any_ difference, really. He had yet to see battle, and yet he had already helped his brother kill three men. How many more would follow?

            It was one of many questions that had driven him out into the night and up onto this hill.

            “It...it...they deserved to die, my lady.”

            He felt the nod, along with the slight annoyance. “Yes, they did. They violated their liege lord’s orders, and that can never be tolerated.” _And what of the girl?_ Jon thought, but didn’t say. No one seemed to care about the girl, even her father had been as angry about the chickens as he had been about what had been done to his daughter. _Father did warn me,_ he thought. 

            _He did say that the world was dark and cruel._

            It still didn’t seem right.

            “I didn’t ask whether they deserved to die, Jon.”

            He nodded, focused on the stars. They seemed easier to understand than Lady Stark. “It felt...I don’t know. I knew that they had to die, _deserved_ to die, and I know that many more will follow before this all done with, but...it...it…” He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, shook his head. “I didn’t enjoy it, my lady.”

            “Yes, I could tell. That’s a good thing, you know.”

            He turned back to her, surprised. “It is?”

            “Oh, yes. Good people don’t enjoy killing. It must be done, that’s the way of the world, but you should never enjoy it. My son didn’t enjoy it, either.”

            “No,” Jon admitted, “he didn’t. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t botch it, but he didn’t enjoy it.”

            “And now he’s praying.”

            “Yes, my lady.”

            “And Theon’s out carousing with the camp followers.”

            “He generally is, my lady.”

            “And you’re alone on a hill by a fire, eating bread and sipping ale and...doing _what?_ ”

            He could only shrug. “Don’t rightly know, my lady.” He sighed, turned once more to the stars. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you here?”

            “With the army, or on this hill with you?”

            “The latter, obviously.”

            “My son...my son has commanded me to make peace with you. Apparently, he’s grown tired of the...awkward silences.” A pause. “And...and several lords have complained.”

            “Let me guess,” he said, suppressing a groan. “Umber, Glover, Hornwood.”

            “Karstark, too.”

            That brought Jon up short. “Lord Rickard?”

            “The same. If I had to guess, he doesn’t like how much access the Umbers are getting through you and has decided to do something about it.”

            Jon let out the groan this time. It made his head hurt, the way the lords of the North had gone from mild indifference to warm “friendship” since he had been called back from the Wall. _Things will be different now,_ Sam had warned him. _You’re not just a bastard now; you’re the future lord’s honored and respected brother, and they’ll want a piece of you._

            _I should’ve listened a little harder._

            “I haven’t promised the Umbers anything, my lady, never did.”

            “I know, but you don’t have to. All you have to do is be friendly when an Umber comes up to you when you’re riding with my son, and then they’re only a shout away from their future liege lord.”

            Jon grimaced. “I see. So…you’re here to make peace then.”

            “Or something like it. Will you make peace with me?”

            _Kill the boy,_ Maester Aemon had said. _Kill the boy, and let the man be born._

Jon squared his shoulders, set his jaw, turned back to Lady Stark, and bowed his head.

            _Here goes._

“For Robb, my lady, I’d do anything.”

            Her eyes bored into him, hard and unflinching, until he felt flayed, felt as if his very soul had been laid bare.

            “Yes,” she finally said, “you would, wouldn’t you?”

            He looked her right back. He knew he could not match the power of her gaze, but he had to look at something, didn’t he, and the stars certainly weren’t helping anyone. “All I’ve ever wanted to do was serve my family. _The lone wolf dies-”_

 _“But the pack survives,_ ” she finished. “Yes, I remember. And, for what it’s worth...I’m sorry. I’ve always been sorry.” She looked away; it seemed her turn to gaze upon the stars, to search for answers that didn’t seem to be there. “I know you don’t believe me, that you probably never will, and truth be told, I could probably hate you until the end of my days, but I am sorry.”

            Jon didn’t believe her, didn’t know if he believed in anything anymore. A foundation stone of his existence was the cold, implacable hatred of Lady Stark.

            He wasn’t sure what his life would be without it.

            “But...but why hate me? I was only a child; I never did anything to you.”

            “Because it was easier than hating your father.”

            And with that, Lady Stark rose, curtsied, and started to walk away, leaving Jon to rise to his feet, dumbfounded, feeling as if he had just been punched in the gut.

            Lady Stark had only taken a few steps before she stopped and turned back. “My son trusts you.”

            “I like to think so,” he said, as if lost in a dream.

            “You know where we’re going.”

            “The Twins.”

            “You know we have to cross, and why.”

            “I do. Robb’s whole plan hinges on a quick crossing there.”

            “Good. Maester Luwin always said you were bright; it’s good to see that he was right, but nevermind that. Point is, we have to cross, and you say that you’d do anything for my...for...for _our_ family.”

            “Yes, my lady.”

            She seemed to chew that a bit before finally nodding, short and sharp. “Well, as I said, you have my son’s trust, and in a few days, you’ll finally get the chance to earn mine. Goodnight, Jon.” With that, she gave a final curtsey, turned back to the camp, and left, trailed by the guard she had left at the foot of the hill.

            Jon left out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, feeling more battered and bruised than after any training session with Ser Rodrik. _Gods, I didn’t feel this battered after the first time the quintain knocked me off a horse._ With something like relief, _but not quite,_ he sank back down onto the grass, looked north, and missed his friends.

            _Gods, if you’re there, watch over my friends._

_Make sure they have a less interesting life than mine’s shaping up to be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, if only Jon knew, eh? 
> 
> So, a lot of things going on here. I picked up a few Catelyn-stans over the past couple of weeks, and it took a lot of willpower not to shoot them a message that said, Hey, look, just...stay the course and read the rest of the fic, okay? Because, thing is, I don't like Catelyn, especially Book!Catelyn, but I don't hate her, either. I've always thought that she was an interesting, complex person who was in desperate need of some character development and got whacked before she got the chance. So, since this is my fic, my rules, I'm going to put her through some paces. I'm borrowing a bit from Michelle Fairley's Show!Catelyn by assuming that, on some level, she hates her treatment of Jon as much as Jon does, but combining that with Book!Catelyn in that, yes, she can say sorry, but does she mean it? I don't know.
> 
> I honestly don't think she does, but it was a good thing to say.
> 
> Couple chores. Some of you may have noticed that I'm doing Zutara Week this year, but like I said, it won't effect this weeks posts, which are already written, just in need of editing and proofreading. So, Thursday's update will go up without any trouble (or, at least, none that I can see; leave it to my son to, I dunno, catch some horrid cold from a kid in the church nursery or something). If you like Zutara, or just like halfway decent ATLA fic, you should check it out under Once More, with Feeling.
> 
> Also, I forgot to say this on Thursday, but a lot of you were really reading into Old Nan's kind of glowering disapproval of Jon, wondering if there was something to it. Well, full disclosure: No, there's nothing to it. I just have a personal fondness for old ladies sitting in corners knitting and vaguely disapproving of everything. Don't know why, really, I just have a soft spot for them, so when I get a chance to write one into a fic, I take it. If you've ever wondered why that type of old lady always ends up somewhere in a fic of mine, now you have your answer.
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, Sam's life gets interesting. Stay tuned!


	25. Samwell

THEY MOVED IN A MASS DOWN THE LORD COMMANDER’S TOWER, THEIR BOOTS RAISING A CACOPHONY THAT ECHOED UP AND DOWN THE HALLS. There were a dozen of them, Sam and Grenn and Pyp and all the brothers still awake or half-awake, scattered through the tower, anyone who could be raised and dragged from their beds by the Lord Commander’s bellows of _To Arms!_ Maester Aemon had been left far behind, leaning on a wall, waiting for Clydas to come and guide him home, unable to keep the furious pace the Lord Commander set, leaving Sam to bring up the rear, all but dragged along by Grenn and Pyp, the book his friends had found clasped to his chest like a shield.

            And through it all, the Lord Commander roared.

            _“I should’ve listened!”_ the Old Bear shouted, his words rumbling up from his belly like the crash of the sea at the Arbor, a memory shrouded in pain and humiliation that Sam’s terrified mind could not help but dredge up. _“My bloody nan bloody told me a thousand bloody sodding times, **You think the sodding Wall was raised for bloody wildlings, BOY?!** But did I listen? **NO!”**_ This last was roared right as they reached the final door at the bottom of the tower. The Lord Commander did not wait for anyone to open it.

            He just kicked it and stormed out into the night, leaving those he had dragged along with him to shoulder their way down and out and through as best they could.

            Sam thought about making one last attempt to hang back, but his friends didn’t let him. “You’re the one who insisted we roust the Lord Commander,” Grenn growled, and with that, he and Pyp grabbed Sam by the elbows and shoved him through and then he was out in the night.

            The cold slapped him in the face. It surprised him, the cold, or at least the ferocity of it. It was always cold this close to the Wall, but the weather had been unusually warm the past few weeks. The Wall had wept every day, every morning had dawned bright and clear and so blue it hurt the eyes, and what snow there had been had melted, transforming the yard of Castle Black into a morass of mud and, try as Sam did to forget it, shit.

            It was snowing now, a light snow, swirling in the air, the flakes turned to glitter by the light of the stars. Sam paused just beyond the doorway, transfixed by the beauty of it, he’d never seen snow like this before, it was wonderful, _gorgeous,_ he watched as one single, sparkling flake fell down out of the darkness and vanished in the hot mist of his breath. 

            It was like a paradise out of legend, right up until the Lord Commander’s voice shattered the illusion. “ ** _Tarly!_** ”

            Sam didn’t have time to think, didn’t have time to quail, _didn’t have time to fear,_ because his friends grabbed him and shoved him forwards, he could seem to do nothing to stop his momentum from taking him through the gathering brothers, they were pouring out now, the Lord Commander had sent runners racing out as he dressed and their words had borne fruit, half of Castle Black was boiling out of their holes and into the yard, yawning and grumbling and rubbing sleep from their eyes, and his friends had propelled him through it all and now Sam stood in the middle of Castle Black, knees shaking, book clutched to his breast in an iron grip, to face the Lord Commander and Ser Jaremy Rykker and Sam’s own personal Other…

            _Ser Alliser Thorne…_

“Tell them,” the Old Bear commanded. “Tell them what you told me. Read you damn book, _boy,_ and then let’s go and do what I should have done a week ago.”

            Sam seized on the word _book_ like a drowning man. He couldn’t do much, he knew that, _accepted it._ He was a fat craven, could barely swing a sword, but dammit, he could _read,_ so he gulp and thanked the gods that he hadn’t pissed himself when the Lord Commander had swung the door open at Maester Aemon’s knock and growled, _This had better be good._ Sam gulped and stammered and shook and then he had the book open and he read the words that had made he and his friends’ blood run cold.

            “Nonsense,” Ser Alliser declared, his flinty eyes turned black and cold as the deepest of the Seven Hells by the night. “Fairy tales to make children piss their swaddling clothes. _Not that it takes much to make Lord Ham piss himself._ ”

            Before Sam could prove the truth of Ser Alliser’s words, the Lord Commander cut him off. “ _Enough of that,_ ” the Old Bear growled, “Tarly may be fat and a craven, but he’s far from stupid. He saw clear when we found the bodies, and I should’ve listened. Tell him, Ser Jaremy.”

            Ser Jaremy nodded. He had looked as angry as any of them at first, still in his sleeping clothes, a cloak draped over his shoulders, sheathed sword held loose in his hand, but something had changed as Sam read, something had visibly… _clicked_. “He did, Alliser.” Sam sensed that the man was looking at him, but he couldn’t be sure; Sam was too busy trying to see his own boots through the open book in his hands. “The boy said that nothing was right about the bodies, and Maester Aemon agreed.” Sam felt the knight’s gaze turn away, and he was sure the man was looking at the Lord Commander. “They were right from the outset, my lord; we should’ve burned them then and there.”

            “What,” Ser Alliser scoffed, “because of _fairytales?!_ The maesters say-”

            “I don’t give a good gods- _damn_ what the maesters told you,” the Lord Commander roared. “You may have forgotten in the South, but in the North, _we remember._ We may not know that we remember, _but we do,_ and it was the voices of the First Men that told me to burn the bodies, _and that’s what we’re going to do._ ”

            Ser Alliser laughed. “And that’s what you need half the Watch to do?”

            “Mayhaps,” the Lord Commander replied, and his voice was hard and cold as the Wall itself.

            There was no response. Sam was sad he was a craven then; if he wasn’t, he would’ve looked up, and beheld the rare sight of Ser Alliser Thorne lost for words.

            The Lord Commander did not give him the chance to work himself up to looking away from the book. “Enough talk,” he rumbled, “did you bring the oil, Ser Jaremy?”

            “I did, my lord.”

            “Good. Pass out torches, light them, and let’s go.”

            And they went.

            By the time they reached the storeroom where the bodies had been tossed, they were at least two-hundred strong, every man armed, half carrying torches, a dozen with Ser Jaremy, carrying jars of oil. All the way, the Lord Commander ranted, carrying his own torch, his tightly held tone belying his rage.

            “ _The Watch always burned their dead, but we don’t anymore, should’ve listened, should’ve known what we remembered, my nan was right, should’ve sodding **remembered,** fool, ghastly old bloody **fool** …”_

There were storerooms carved out of the base of the Wall all along its length, most of them abandoned now, but none of them unique from the others, just places to store perishables and the occasional body, _remains were not apt to return from Beyond the Wall,_ Sam remembered being told, _remembered Ser Alliser gloating,_ but when they did, they were tossed into storerooms like this until they could be boiled and the bones sent back where they came from. 

            _But we were burned once,_ Sam remembered. The Lord Commander was right; for thousands of years, the Watch had _burned_ all its dead. He had read about it countless times as he had worked his way through compiling Maester Aemon’s inventory.

            It was only now that Sam found himself wondering _why._

            The Lord Steward met them at the storeroom, his ever-present ring of keys jingling as he paced to-and-fro through the night, his breath a trail of mist to mark his passage, snow dappling his hair. When he saw the coming horde, he froze in his tracks, bowed, and only managed to croak out, “M’lord-”

            The Old Bear didn’t let him finish. “Nevermind all that, just open the door.” He singled out a few men. “You, you, you, draw your steel, keep your torches up, go in at once. Ser Jaremy, lead them. You two, bring your oil. I’m right behind you, so don’t dawdle. Tarly,” and here, Sam was pretty sure he pissed himself, but he was so frightened he couldn’t be sure, “with me.”

            Grenn and Pyp had reappeared, and they gave him another shove until he was at the Lord Commander’s shoulder. Sam waited, no, _quaked,_ he had never been so frightened in all his life, all of his lord father’s beatings _paled_ in comparison to this, _at least I knew he would tire of beating me at some point,_ but Sam didn’t know when this would end, _didn’t know anything,_ all he knew was that in the chill darkness of that storeroom waited two dead men _who weren’t really dead,_ he had known something was wrong from the beginning, _how can a body smell **cold,**_ but men were going down into the room and then the Lord Commander was grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him down and Longclaw was bared in the Lord Commander’s hand and-

            Within the room were racks of skinned pig carcasses, hanging from the ceiling, wheels of cheese stacked in corners, ropes of sausages and barrels of Sam didn’t know what, and in the middle of it all, two dead bodies, still looking dead.

            Sam was convinced in that instant that he had been wrong, _that it was all a ghastly mistake, Ser Alliser was right, just fairytales to make children piss their britches,_ but then the Lord Commander gestured at Ser Jaremy, and said, “Ser Jaremy, check their eyes.”

            Ser Jaremy frowned. “Does it matter?”

            “No,” the Lord Commander said, “we’re still going to burn them, I don’t fancy finding out what they’ve been waiting for, but check their eyes nonetheless.”

            Ser Jaremy shrugged, handed his torch and sword to the nearest men, crouched down, hesitated. Sam knew all about Ser Jaremy by now, knew that he and Ser Alliser had defended Maegor’s Holdfast long after the cause was known to be lost, had only surrendered when word came that the Mad King was dead, had chosen exile over death, _because they believed that they had done nothing wrong,_ so when Ser Jaremy hesitated, Sam knew that he was right.

            _He knew the book was right._

But Ser Jaremy took a deep breath, let it out in a thick swirl of mist, bent down, lifted the eyes of the corpse of Jafer Flowers, and grimaced. “The eyes are blue, unnatural blue, my lord. I think you might be-”

            The arm of the corpse of Jafer Flowers shot out, took Ser Jaremy by the neck, and Sam shut his eyes.

            All he heard was the sickening _crack,_ and then the chaos.

            He opened his eyes. He was sure he had opened them before, horrid images danced before his eyes, would haunt his dreams, things he _must_ have seen, but he didn’t remember opening his eyes, never would. He was outside the storeroom, there were flames in the storeroom, men had gone down with torches and a few had carried pots of oil, a half-dozen men had gone down besides Sam and the Lord Commander but they were all dead, Sam knew that, but he was alive, _alive,_ he was on the ground, the ground was cold and muddy and he could feel his toes squelching mud in his boots and his body ached and he looked and the wild eyes of the Lord Commander were looking back at him and Sam realized that he had dragged the Lord Commander out of the hell that had become the storeroom and this seemed absurd but why else were his arms around the Lord Commander and half of Castle Black were gathered around them in the night and the snowflakes were burning in Sam’s eyes and he heard something _not human_ and he looked at the storeroom and there in the door stood Jafer Flowers, he had a brief, terrifying memory of the corpse that had once been a man named _Othor_ losing its head to a desperate swing of an axe and could see the headless corpse hurling itself blindly against the walls smearing the ice with pitch-black blood but there was Jafer Flowers silhouetted by the flames turning the storeroom into a kind of hell and the _thing_ that was once Jafer Flowers took in the gathered brothers of the Night’s Watch and opened its eyes and its eyes blazed with a blue no living man had seen for thousands of years and Sam heard a voice say _Mother protect me_ and it sounded like Ser Alliser but that couldn’t be right the voice sounded like that of a small, terrified child but Sam couldn’t think about that the book was long gone and Sam didn’t care he looked up and saw Grenn holding a torch and looked to the _thing_ in the door and the _thing_ had a sword through its heart and the blade was dripping blood black as hell and he looked back to Grenn and screamed so loud his throat felt like it was tearing apart.

_“The gift of the gods!”_

Grenn blinked, nodded, ran forward, and thrust his torch into the thing’s open mouth.

He jumped back just in time, for the thing was already half aflame and coated with oil and it fell to its knees and _screamed_ they all watched, spellbound, stunned into terrified silence as the _thing_ screamed and wailed and batted at the torch in its mouth and fell back into the fiery hell of the storeroom and _screamed_ until it finally died. 

“By the gods,” the Lord Commander said, long after the inhuman screams had stopped, clutching at his groin, “I do believe I’ve pissed myself.”

            “Me, too, my lord,” a voice that sounded like Sam’s but couldn’t have been Sam’s, _since when did I speak without a frightened stammer,_ “me, too.”

            Madness came on him then, and he laughed, he laughed and laughed and _laughed_ until suddenly he was sobbing so hard his ribs began to _ache_ and no one said a word until Ser Alliser came and patted Sam on the back and said, in a kind voice, “There you go, boy, let it out, let it out…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn. That was a full on fire in the circus.
> 
> You know, because it's in tents! 
> 
> ...did I mention that I'm a dad...?
> 
> Anyhoo, first thing's first, the elephant in the room: Yesterday was a tough writing day, I was feeling a bit drained, but I managed to cobble this together and there I was, thinking, I should probably save this, but I was all, naaah, it's fine, I'll save when I'm finished, and just then, because God is a bit of an asshole, the power went out.
> 
> I...I had a bit of a meltdown. Might have gone to the bedroom and scream/cried into a pillow, that's not important. Point is, I decided to just kind of...leave it until morning, and I woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed and remembered how to recover "lost" data and all was well and, well, here you guys go.
> 
> Hope you like it! I think it turned out well. I promised shit was about to get real, didn't I?
> 
> Last thing before I go: I got a...troubling review on FF.net the other day, accusing me of "blocking Guest reviews" and calling me a coward for doing so. Leaving aside the fact that leaving negative reviews as a Guest is kind of...problematic, in my opinion, the point remains that...well...said review was made by a Guest account, and marked as such. Now, apparently, for reasons known only to God, FF.net does not always show Guest reviews when you check the reviews, don't ask me, I don't know how to use this site, I don't think anyone does, it's a relic, but I can assure you that I get notified of them and their contents. They're there, but if they're not showing up, I haven't the foggiest idea why. Go bother FF.net, because I'm not blocking them; I honestly wouldn't have any idea how.
> 
> Say what you will about AO3 (and I think we can all say a lot), but it's much more user friendly.
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode (God willing), we pop down to King's Landing real quick. Stay tuned!


	26. Sansa

SHE KNELT BEFORE THE FATHER AND PRAYED.

            Sansa liked the Red Keep’s sept. The Red Keep was smaller than Winterfell, more cramped, and Sansa had been told that, in winter, it could get fiendishly cold, but its sept made Winterfell’s seem little more than a hovel. Winterfell hadn’t even had a sept until Father had ordered one built for Mother, and the result, though well-made, was rather small and plain. The royal sept of the Red Keep was something else entirely. Its seven altars held seven statues of the finest marble, the statues themselves clothed in shimmering silks and bedecked with glittering jewels; even the Stranger, in its dark and gloomy alcove, managed to like grand and splendid, though Sansa always averted her eyes when she passed before it. The windows were high and soaring, stained glass decorated with intricate, finely wrought designs, and the incense burners were kept lit all day and all night, so that the air smelled sweet as spring. It was such a grand place, straight out of Sansa’s dreams, and when she knelt before one of the altars, she could almost _feel_ the presence of the Seven-Who-Are-One.

            It was also the only place in all the Red Keep where Sansa was ever left alone. Sansa tried not to think about that; it made her feel peevish and bitter, and that would not do. _A lady must always keep her cool,_ she had been taught, _must always be sweet and polite and good-tempered, must move beyond the things that might threaten her balance._ The pair of red-cloaked guards that followed her everywhere were for her safety, the handmaids for her needs, the septa for her honor. That was what the Queen had told her, and the Queen would not lie to her. Kings may have to lie sometimes, but Queens never did. The Queen was the closest to the Mother a mortal woman could get, and mothers never lied, so Sansa’s own mother had promised. Mothers never lied, the Queen was a mother, and so the Queen could not lie. That would make the Queen a monster, would make Joffrey the son of a monster.

            And Father would not have betrothed her to a monster, much less the son of one.

            She pushed that all away. It only made her feel anxious and afraid, and she had come to the royal sept to pray, to shed her fears and doubts, to hand her anxieties into the hands of the Seven, if only for a little while, in peace and silence. It was only here that her…her… _her entourage…_ left her alone, the only time they would obey even the politest request to _stay back a little._ Here, she could kneel before six of the Seven ( _she passed the Stranger; all knew it was pointless to beg for succor from the Stranger_ ), open her missal, and pray. She could pray and pray, pray until her knees began to ache, and then she could pray some more. Mother had taught her that the Seven always answered prayers offered with one’s whole heart in good faith, and Sansa was sure she was doing that. 

            Once, Sansa has asked Father if the old gods answered all prayers. _Aye,_ Father had said, looking away from Winterfell’s weirwood tree to give her one of his kind smiles, the sort that made the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle, _they do, sweetheart. Alas, sometimes the answer is “no.”_

            Sansa hadn’t liked that, and clove to the Seven ever after. Even now, she clove to the Seven. 

            She couldn’t risk any god telling her _no._

            “There you are, little dove.”

            Sansa gasped, the blood draining from her face in a sudden, icy chill. She whirled around, lost and confused, heart racing. She had been alone, alone and so very far away, she had almost _felt_ the Father, could all but _touch_ the Mother, could practically _hear_ the Maiden praying on her behalf, could almost-

            “There, there, dear heart,” the voice said again, a hand patting her shoulder, “it’s alright, I shouldn’t have disturbed you at your prayers.”

            Knowledge crashed down upon Sansa like a wave. She shot to her feet, her vision blurring, light-headed as she forced herself back down on her knees. “Your Grace,” she finally choked out, the blood rushing back into her face in an embarrassed blush, “I…I’m sorry, I didn’t even know you were there, I-“

            “Like I said,” the Queen said, her voice soft and kind, “my fault entirely. I feel just _terrible_ for startling you so. Of _course,_ you were lost in your prayers; who wouldn’t be, in your situation?”

            Sansa was reeling, her mind so fuzzy it was all she could to not to collapse into a heap on the cold stone floor. _Funny,_ a strange voice whispered, _I never noticed how cold it was until just now…_

She screwed her eyes shut, counted to ten, and willed herself to look up, praying anew, begging the gods that she did not look as ridiculous as she felt.

            One look at the Queen’s face was all she needed to feel assured. Sansa could never understand why people seemed to hate the Queen so. Cersei Lannister was all that a queen should be, stunningly beautiful, slender and graceful, emerald eyes a sharp, almost shocking contrast to the golden curls that fell to her waist. _This_ was what a Queen should be, what all the songs promised a Queen should look like.

            In that moment, Sansa knew hate. She hated the late King’s brothers so much she could taste bile burning at the back of her throat. _Damn them,_ she thought, her inner voice a hideous snarl. _Damn them for deceiving Father so._

_None of this would have happened, if those scheming so-called **lords** had just left well enough alone…_

The Queen snapped her fingers, pointed at the floor. Two servants appeared, heads bowed, eyes cast down as they set two low stools in the middle of the sept before bowing their way out of sight. The Queen sighed as she settled herself onto one. “My apologies, little dove, but kneeling on a cold sept floor is a young girl’s game; these old bones need to sit, I’m afraid.”

            Sansa shook her head. “There’s nothing old about you, Your Grace.”

            The Queen laughed, soft and elegant, a laugh Sansa tried to mimic when she was alone in her room, looking into her mirror. “How sweet of you, my dear, but old age comes for us all. Please,” she continued, waving at the other stool, “sit with me.”

            It was often the custom for highborn ladies to sit on stools during services. Sansa’s own mother had done so, whenever she had grown great with Arya and Bran and Rickon, but Catelyn Stark had disapproved of stools for any other reason beyond advanced age. It was Mother’s voice that rang in Sansa’s ears, as Sansa stood, bowed once to the Father, once more to the Queen, and sat. “If it pleases Your Grace,” she said, her voice sounding somehow brittle and cold in her ears.

            “It pleases me for you to be happy, Sansa,” the Queen said, patting Sansa’s arm and giving a final smile, but her face became set and withdrawn. “Alas, I’m afraid, that the news I have to bring will not bring me closer to that goal.”

            Sansa bowed her head. _A lady’s armor is her courtesy,_ Mother had often said. Those words came to her more and more of late, though Sansa didn’t know why.

            One only needed armor around monsters, after all, and surely there were no monsters here.

            _Father would have told me if there were._

_Right…?_

“There’s been fighting,” Sansa said.

            The Queen nodded. “Yes. It goes well for the Crown, of course; how could it not, when our cause is so just? But fighting there has been. My brother won a great victory beneath the Golden Tooth, and now has Riverrun under siege.” The Queen paused, tapped a finger to pursed lips. “Edmure Tully is your uncle, is he not?”

            “My mother’s younger brother,” Sansa answered, “though I confess I have never met him.” She paused, nibbled a lip. “Is…is my uncle alright…?”

            The Queen sighed, reached out to cup Sansa’s cheek. It was all Sansa could do not to burst into tears; her need for her own mother was a yawning cavern in her soul. “Oh, he’s quite alright. A prisoner, yes, but he is being treated with all due courtesy.” The Queen gave Sansa’s cheek a pat, leaned back. “It’s your brother I wish to speak of, though.”

            Sansa cringed. She had been afraid of this. “He called the banners.”

            “I’m afraid so, little dove. He marches south with a great host, flying banners of war.”

            “He’s afraid!” Sansa burst out, clutching the nearest of the Queen’s hands. “He would never betray the Crown, never betray my beloved Joffrey, but he fears for Father and some of the northern lords cannot be trusted they must have told him bad things just like Lord Renly and Lord Stannis told Father bad things, they must have taken advantage of him, if only I could write to him, tell him the truth, surely if I _told him the truth as you’ve told it to me,_ told him that I’m safe and that Father is alright and that it was Lord Renly that made off with Arya and-“

            The Queen stopped her with a smile as she pulled her hands ever so gently from Sansa’s and clasped Sansa’s hands in turn. “That was _exactly_ what I was thinking. That my brother would be victorious, I do not doubt, but if unnecessary bloodshed could be avoided, if your brother’s fears could be assuaged…”

            Sansa couldn’t take it anymore. She flung herself into the Queen’s arms and burst into tears, promised to write the letter, promised to say anything, anything at all.

            She was so afraid…

            _For who?_ a voice whispered.

            _For…for my family, for Father and Mother and Robb and Arya and everyone else and…and…_

Sansa’s mind ran out of words. She told herself that was because she had nothing to fear. After all, in the songs, ladies need only fear monsters.

            And she was sure that there were no monsters here, just her beloved Joffrey and the Queen, the Queen who was also a worried mother…

            _A worried mother…_

It wasn’t until later, when she lay abed in her room, that she realized that the Queen had somehow interrupted her right as she was about to ask if she could see Father, but Sansa decided that it was alright, _surely it was just a coincidence._

_I’ll ask tomorrow…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll just edit and proofread this on Sunday, I said. Then I can post this first thing in the morning on Monday and people won't have to wait all day, I said. 
> 
> Oh well, the best laid plans of mice and men, you know?
> 
> Anyhoo, couple things. First: If you're one of my readers who just feels their blood boiling whenever you see Sansa's name, I'm sorry, but she's going to be an important character later, so we gotta lay some ground work here. Plus, she's the only semi-sympathetic character actually in the Red Keep right now, and you can not force me into Cersei Lannister's head against my will. GRRM took me in there way too many times in the fourth book.
> 
> Plus, and sorry for getting personal here, but I empathize with Sansa. My...step-dad is kind of evil, but I went through this period where I desperately tried to make myself as like him as possible when I was a teenager. I never knew my biological father (and what I've learned over the years makes me thankful that I didn't), and I just...so fucking desperate for the approval of a male father figure, it's just...thank God my step-dad wasn't in the Klan, because at fourteen, I was so desperate for his approval (and for him to kick the shit out of me a bit less) that I would've happily gone to the meetings with him on the off chance that he'd give me some weird, backhanded compliment. Even grown ass adults are vulnerable to manipulation by people preying on their fears and insecurities; teenagers are doubly so.
> 
> I also like the subtle dig at Cersei. She's a master manipulator...against naive doofs like Ned Stark and ill-prepared, sheltered teenagers like Sansa. Against everyone else...not so much. 
> 
> Long story short, if you have an objection to Sansa, I've heard it, at length; this is my story, and I'm going to write it the only way I can.
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, it's back to the front, where Catelyn Stark tries her hands at negotiation. Stay tuned!


	27. Catelyn

****WALDER FREY LEANED BACK IN HIS SEAT TO A CHORUS OF HOLLOW CREAKS, WHETHER FROM HIS BONES OR THE WOOD OF THE CHAIR, SHE COULD NOT SAY. He looked at her, the sharpness of his mind untouched by his ninety years, and steepled his spotted hands. He pursed his lips, tapped his steepled forefingers against his chin, and when he finally broke the silence of the deserted hall, his mouth was curled into sly grin she liked not at all.

            “I think,” the Late Lord Frey said in his grating croak, “that you mean to cheat me.”

            Catelyn put on her best, most ladylike smile, and bowed her head, the perfect picture of innocence. She doubted that Lord Frey was fooled for an instant, but as her mother had always taught her, certain forms had to be observed. “I can’t imagine what you mean, my lord. Have I not promised your house my own daughter’s hand in marriage?”

            Lord Frey scoffed, a wet, papery sound that made Catelyn’s skin crawl. “You have sold me a mare you do not have, and what’s more, a mare than no one seems able to find.” Some hint of surprise must have flitted across her face, for Lord Frey began laughing. The laughter quickly died in a cacophony of coughs that Walder Frey drowned in a few deep gulps of wine, but not before a shiver of disgust rippled up Catelyn’s spine.

            _Damn._

            “Oh, yes,” he said, unsteepling his fingers and laying his hands flat on the table between them, “I may be old, but I can still read a letter, and I can read between the words, as well. I can see right through you, _my lady,_ ” and here, he sneered and licked his lips, somehow making the courtesy sound like the rankest of insults, “and that golden bitch of a Lannister whore in King’s Landing is not a tenth as subtle as you.” She opened her mouth, but he waved aside her unspoken words. “Oh, yes, there is the rest. My son Olyvar to serve your son as squire, two of my numberless grandsons to become wards in Winterfell, but this is a pact I could as easy make with the Lannisters.” He paused, leaned forward, and Catelyn watched as greed and avarice glittered in his eyes like fire. “Tywin Lannister has more cousins and second cousins and third cousins that even Littlefinger can count, and he would sell them all to me to keep your whelp from crossing my bridge. So, _my lady,_ I say again: _I think you mean to cheat me.”_

            That was _exactly_ what Catelyn had hoped to do. Her eyes flew to the nearest window, saw that the sun was sinking ever closer to the horizon. _I’m running out of time._ She knew Lord Umber had had the truth of it, that the northern host could take the Twins by storm, _especially_ if they struck now, but Jon, _gods damn him,_ had been right, too. It would be costly, and they would need every sword and every spear and every bow in the fight ahead, _especially_ if her son’s mad but brilliant plan was to have even the barest chance of success. 

            She needed to strike a bargain, and she needed to do it _now._ What was worse, Walder Frey _knew it._ He knew _everything_ she knew, and he had just looked in the eye and called out her initial offer for the clumsy attempt at cheating that it was.

            _Well then,_ she decided, _time to the other option._

            “What,” she said, taking a small sip of her wine and setting the cup carefully upon her lap, “do you want, my lord?”

            That brought another cackle, though no coughs this time. Catelyn was beginning to suspect that even Walder Frey’s _visible_ decrepitude was false. “ _That,_ girl, is what I like to hear.” He sighed, steepled his fingers once more, leaned back in his chair. “ _What do I want…”_

It was everything Catelyn could do, keeping her fingers from tightening on the stem of her cup. She knew _exactly_ what the Late Lord Frey wanted, just as she knew that, _if this was to work,_ she would have to sit and wait and mind her tongue while Walder Frey put on a mummer’s farce about it.

            _And they say **women** are the dramatic ones…_

“The problem is,” Lord Frey finally said, eyes boring into her, _never had he looked more like a weasel,_ Catelyn found herself biting down on an overwhelming urge to hurl the contents of her cup in his face, “you’ve already tried to cheat me once. It makes a man… _suspicious,_ careful, even. You can see my conundrum.”

            Catelyn poured every ounce of her self-control, even bit of a childhood filled with etiquette lessons, into keeping the soft, open smile on her face. “Perhaps if my lord could tell me what it is, precisely, that he believes I’m trying to cheat him of…”

            Lord Frey’s eyes narrowed, the age spots on his head seeming to darken a few shades. “Don’t play the naïve little maiden with me, _girl._ You know what I want.”

            _There’s an army twenty-thousand strong donning armor and lashing ladders together on your doorstep, **my lord,**_ she raged in the privacy of her own mind. _Mayhaps you’ll be more pliant at the point of a sword._

            It was tempting, _oh so tempting._ The northern lords were all for it, her son was for it, deep down inside, _she was for it,_ gods, the other river lords would probably through Robb a feast of thanks for finally putting an end to the Freys.

            _But, dammit, we don’t have the **time.**_ They needed to _move,_ needed to _cross,_ and they could not afford to lose even a thousand men, not now, _and the Twins would cost them more than a thousand._

            “I assume, my lord,” she said, though it took everything she had, everything she _was,_ to keep her voice under control, “you are referring to my son.”

            Walder Frey smiled. It did not, Catelyn felt, improve his face; rather the opposite, really. “I am, _my lady,_ I am indeed…” He paused, frowned, his brow furrowed. “Though, the longer I sit here and think on it, the more doubtful I am that your son would be my best option…”

            Catelyn almost yelped for joy.

            _Careful now, Cat, careful now…_

_Almost there…_

“I do have to admit, now that my lord has brought it up,” she said, her voice the perfect picture of regret and consideration, “that, should we arrange my son with one of your daughters, my lord husband would have a few things to say about it.”

            Walder Frey nodded. “Yes, I rather imagine that he would…” They fell silent, and Catelyn let all the myriad ways House Stark could weasel its way out of any marriage pact with House Frey cluster together in the gloomy silence of the hall. The possibilities really were endless. Even if the price of Ned’s freedom was to spend the rest of his life at the Wall, he would still be Head of House from the moment he was released from his cell until the moment he arrived at Castle Black and took his vows, meaning that it would be well within his rights to simply cancel the agreement the moment the northern host was back over the Neck.

            _Gods,_ she thought, _it doesn’t even need to be that dramatic; there are nunneries in White Harbor, and nunneries will never turn away a new sister, **especially** is said sister comes with a fat bag of gold._

            Which, to be perfectly honest, had always been her intention, if she couldn’t find a way to cheat Walder Frey of her eldest son. Her only worry had been how to convince her son and her husband to stoop to such underhanded tactics, but she was sure she would have found a way.

            All of sudden, Lord Frey moved, catching her by surprise as he got up from his chair, slumped his way around the table, and taking her cup from her stunned, unresisting hands. He tossed the remnants onto the floor, refilled it, handed it back to her, and slumped and doddered his way back to his chair.

            “You know,” he finally said, settling back into his chair amidst yet another cacophony of shrieks and groans and pops, somehow even _louder_ next time, “rumor has it that that bastard of your husband’s has risen rather high of late.”

            Catelyn didn’t have to fake her expression this time; the anger and the bitterness were all too real. _I have made my peace with your brother,_ she had told Robb just the other day, _but don’t expect me to be happy about it._ “I’m afraid that my lord has been well-informed.”

            “Hmm…” Walder Frey refilled his own cup, took a large gulp, smacked his lips. “Indeed, they say that the boy sits on all of the future Lord of Winterfell’s councils, rides beside him at the head of the army, is always by his side…”

            “Jon has become… my son’s right hand man,” she admitted through gritted teeth, which, sure, _was a bit dramatic,_ even she had to admit that Jon was proving to be a very good _right hand man,_ but, again, _the didn’t have to like it._

            “Hmmm…” Walder Frey took another gulp of wine, smacked his lips once more…

            _And smiled…_

It was all Catelyn could do to stop herself from jumping up and dancing a jig, right then and there, giggling like a loon the whole time.

            _Got him._

            She bowed her head, and Walder Frey bowed his head back.

            After that, only the haggling remained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, that Catelyn! Always up to shenanigans...
> 
> Not one hell of a lot to add to this, especially because we're going to get into a bit more detail over the next few chapters. I mean, you guys already guessed what was going to go down ages ago; honestly, I don't even think that this qualifies as a twist. It really is the obvious move. In the original timeline, Catelyn didn't have anything to offer Frey except her son; he would've seen right through any attempt to marry off Arya as an attempt to cheat him, Sansa simply isn't available (and might have to marry Joffrey anyways to seal any peace deal with the Lannisters), Arya's missing, and Walder Frey's only got so many daughters and Bran and Rickon are too far away from marriageable age for Walder Frey's liking. That left Robb, but in this story, Jon's right there, too. 
> 
> It's not a bad move from Walder Frey's perspective, either. If he can't get the heir, why not get the bastard that sits at the heir's right hand? We've already examined how Jon is being used by the northern lords to get access to Robb; the treasured brother's father-in-law can expect the same kind of access and influence, perhaps even more so. Sure, the kid is a bastard, and even if legitimized, Jon would be right at the bottom of the line of succession, behind even Rickon, but access and influence is access and influence.
> 
> I also refuse to believe that Catelyn didn't always intend to weasel out of the match. Marrying off Robb really is a bad deal in the long term for the Starks.
> 
> Marrying off Jon, though? Rather less so.
> 
> Though, now that I think about it...a lot of you guys have made a good point, that Catelyn really dropped the ball on her daughters' education. Catelyn, for all her faults, had a pretty accurate, level-headed view of the world; would've been nice if she'd passed some of that on to, say, Sansa, instead of encouraging the girl to live in a fantasy world her whole life.
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, Catelyn tells Robb what she's done, and Jon makes a choice. Stay tuned!


	28. Robb

AS MOTHER BEGAN TO LIST LORD FREY’S TERMS, ROBB WAS NOT SURPRISED. _The Late Lord Frey,_ Robb’s grandfather had called the man. _Expect nothing of Lord Frey, and you will never be surprised,_ Robb’s own mother had advised. So, as Mother began to list off the terms for crossing, Robb had, at first, nodded. Marriage for Arya? _She won’t like it, but she’ll do it for the family, and there is time yet to wiggle out of the contract, if needs be._ An extra squire for himself? _Fine._ Two boys to foster at Winterfell? _Easy enough._ A potential bride for Rickon at some point in the future? _Time enough to deal with that._ All ransoms and plunder gained by the soldiers of House Frey to accrue to House Frey and House Frey alone? _Uncle Edmure won’t like being cheated of the liege lord’s share, but that’s between Riverrun and the Twins, and naught to do with me. Mayhaps it’ll teach him not to lose battles in the future._

And then Mother faltered, reached out, grabbed Robb by the arm, and pulled them both to a stop in the no man’s land between the Twins and the northern host that was still deep into its preparations to take the Crossing by force ( _Robb himself was wearing his armor, his helm cradled in the crook of his arm)_. Her fingers dug deep into one of the gaps in his plate, reminding Robb of iron-like fingers pinning his upper arm at table as Mother growled into his ear while, in the present, Mother sighed and said, “There is one more condition.”

            Robb shrugged. He had expected this. “Fine, I’ll marry whomever Lord Frey wishes, so long as we-”

            “It was not your hand that I gave to Lord Frey.”

            That brought Robb up short. He had been expecting to have to marry; Walder Frey could field an army from his britches, and his rapaciousness with regards to marriage pacts was common knowledge from Last Hearth to Sunspear. He had managed to talk himself into it while waiting for his mother to return from the Twins, as his army prepared to attack and he supped with Jon on watered ale and meat from a deer Grey Wind and Ghost had caught the previous morning. Robb and his brother had been discussing that very deer when news of Mother’s return came, trying to decide why their wolves had suddenly decided to bring a kill back to the army. Robb credited their loyalty, though Jon suspected that they had just caught a deer too big for the two of them to eat alone and Theon, wandering into the tent to join them, had offered that the direwolves merely pitied them for the poorness of the fare offered by an army on the march. They had laughed at that, even Jon, which gladdened Robb’s heart; his brother’s brooding had been worse than usual these past few days.

            And now he was standing between the Twins and his army, within arrow shot of both, and his mother was telling him that that was not to be his fate. He felt his eyes narrow, felt himself turn on his mother, saw the tension in her. He could feel it now, feel it in the desperate grip on his arm.

            Alarm bells tolled, down in the primal depths of his mind, and anger he did not yet understand bloomed to life in his heart.

            “Mother,” he said, reaching out and freeing his arm from her grasp, “ _what did you do?”_

“You have to understand,” Mother said, pulling back from him, arms up, palms out. “Lord Frey wanted _you,”_ she continued, the words pouring forth, barely audible over the roar in Robb’s ears, _“_ but you have to remain available, only the gods can know what alliances we might yet be able to make, the Tyrells have an unmarried daughter and more cousins than even the Lannisters, and if the coming fighting goes well you might need to make a pact with the Iron Throne, especially if we want them to free both your father _and_ the girls, or who knows, mayhaps there will be the loyalty of one of your chief houses to shore up, but Lord Frey wanted _you_ and I needed to outmaneuver him and outbid the Lannisters and-“

            “ _You sold him Jon._ ”

            Mother shook her head, though Robb couldn’t help but notice that she would not meet his eyes. “ _No,_ Robb, I made a marriage alliance, and a good one, one that-“

            **_“You sold Jon.”_**

            Anger flashed in her eyes, anger and bitterness and rage grown cold with age. Robb blinked, and realized that he was seeing a side of his mother that he had never allowed himself to know.

            _I am seeing her as Jon sees her._

_I wonder what else Jon sees, that I do not._

            “Don’t you take that tone with me,” Mother said, her voice hardening, the tension was all gone, her hands were balled into fists, Robb half expecting her to send for Old Nan to give him a good birching. “You told me to secure the crossing, and I have!”

            “By selling my brother!”

            “By finally putting that damn bastard to good use!”

            “Don’t call him that!”

_“That’s what he is!”_

_“I promised him! I promised that when this was all over, he could go back to the Wall, and now you would break my word and take that away from him?”_

“Please,” his mother scoffed, “he should thank me for saving him from that ghastly place.”

            **_“Then why did you send him there?!”_**

**** _“Because that’s where bastards go! But you wouldn’t let him go, first your father, then you, and so I made use of him!”_

_“I promised him, Mother! **Promised him!**_ ”

            “I’ll do it.”

            Robb had been shouting at his mother, and his mother had been shouting back, heedless of the world, a battle could’ve been raging, and they would have ignored it, leaving Robb to jump with surprise and Mother to let out a frightened gasp. Robb turned around, sword half out, blood boiling, senses singing, the alarm bells a mad cacophony now, only to find his brother, standing there, all alone, shoulders set, hand on the hilt of his own sword, but somehow deflated, somehow…

            _Sad…_

The rage in Robb’s heart reached a crescendo. In that moment, if Lord Umber had been with Jon, Robb would’ve ordered the attack. He would’ve ordered the Twins sacked and shattered, ordered his mother home to Winterfell, would’ve done anything, _anything at all,_ to make his brother smile.

            _But then…_

“You know what I’ve done,” Mother said.

            Jon shrugged, looked past Robb’s shoulder towards the Twins. “I suspected you would do as much, after our… _conversation,_ on the hill. How did you sell it to Lord Frey?”

            Before Mother could answer, Robb stepped between them, cut her off. He didn’t want to hear it, _couldn’t hear it,_ he knew his duty to Winterfell, to Father, _to his sisters,_ for all that it made him want to vomit. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to do it; I won’t force you.”

            Jon nodded, gave Robb a sad, weak smile. “You don’t have to. Lady Stark?”

            “Yes, Jon?”

            “Is there any other way across?”

            Robb turned back to his mother in time to watch her shake her head. “Only if we sound the horns and attack or sell Robb instead.”

            Jon nodded once more, and a little more life came back into his smile. “You really took me at my word, didn’t you, Lady Stark?

            Mother grimaced. “I did.”

            “Well, I meant what I said; I suppose now’s the time to prove it.” Jon sighed, ran a gauntleted hand through his hair. “When’s the wedding?”

            “Tonight.”

            Robb gasped, shock flooding through his veins as he slammed his sword back home. “ _Mother!_ You can’t possibly be serious!”

            “Lord Frey would’ve waited for _you_ ,” Mother snapped, each word sounding like it caused her pain. “For Jon, he demands payment _now._ The Twins’ septon will marry them as soon as the sun has fully set, there’ll be a short reception, Jon will bed the girl, and you can all march at first light.” She took a deep breath, let it out, brushed wrinkles Robb could not see from her dress. “There are other conditions.”

            Robb groaned and rolled his eyes. “Gods, Mother, what else? Did you sell him Winterfell while you were at it?”

            “ _Robb,”_ Jon warned.

            “It’s starting to feel like a valid question!”

            “Of _course,_ I didn’t sell Winterfell,” Mother answered, a strange look on her face as she gazed at Jon. “But Jon will be knighted before the ceremony, and Lord Frey expects us to bestow lands and a lordship on him, and... _and…”_

“And _what,_ Mother?”

            Mother was shaking now, her lips pressed into a tight, thin line. “Lord Frey expects any peace settlement with the Crown to include Jon’s _legitimation_.”

            Silence fell, thick and heavy with unspoken _things_ that slithered in the darkness. Robb felt as if the three of them were cloaked in the silence, almost _smothered_ in it. In a flash, his fury and rage had been replaced with a yawning void, cold and frozen as the Wall. He, quite literally, didn’t believe his own ears. It just seemed so...so... _impossible._ As far back as Robb could remember, he had wanted his brother to be a Stark, to stand beside him proud and true, Robb couldn’t even _imagine_ life without his brother. Whenever Robb had imagined being _Lord of Winterfell,_ he had seen, as clear as day, his brother standing beside him, brother united against the world. Even when Jon had been packed off to the Wall, _no matter how much Jon swore it was his own choice, Robb knew better,_ Robb had been unable to shake the image away, had lain awake plotting how to get his brother back, imagined the day when he could finally give Jon the gift they both knew Jon wanted above all others, and yet, now…

            _Now, it felt bitter and cruel._

It was Jon who broke the silence, anger rippling through his voice, the first sign of something other than _resignation._ “You didn’t have to bribe me, _my lady._ I said I’d do anything for House Stark, and I meant it.”

            Mother looked away. “It’s not a bribe; Lord Frey insisted.”

            More silence, as Robb watched Jon’s hand open and close on the hilt of his sword, until finally, Jon let out a sigh that Robb felt in his very bones. “Well, then I had best get ready, hadn’t I?” He bowed, first to Mother, and then Robb. “My lady, Robb,” and with that, he turned on his heel and headed back towards the camp.

            Leaving Robb to watch his brother trudge away, looking defeated, somehow.

            Just like that, the anger was back.

            He rounded on his mother. If she was perturbed by the anger darkening his face, she didn’t show it; her _mask of ladyship_ had firmly slipped back into place.

            “Happy now, Mother?”

            Not even that dented her mask. “Not in the least, but you wanted the Crossing, and now you have it.” She straightened her back, threw out her jaw and started marching off after Jon.

            Robb stopped her, grabbing her arm and bringing her skidding to a halt. “Where do you think you’re going, Mother?”

            It was the voice, Robb felt, that brought his mother to heel. 

            _Robb had never used his Lord’s Voice on his mother before._

“There are arrangements to make,” she said, shaking her arm free of Robb’s grasp. “Jon needs instruction in the knighting and marriage ceremonies, and we need to figure out what lands he will be given. Lord Frey will expect to see a provisional grant in the morning.”

            Robb shook his head. “I’ll have the Manderlys and their septon see to Jon’s instruction, and only Father can grant lands; the _Late Lord Frey_ will have to wait on that.”

            “Then...then mayhaps I’m just tired, Robb.”

            “You’re the one who agreed to a wedding within the next few hours.”

            “And what, exactly, do you expect me to do?”

            “What I _expect,_ Mother,” he said, jabbing a finger in her face, “is that you will go back down there and find Jon the prettiest, kindest, most gentle young maiden that the Twins have to offer.” He pulled the finger back, spread his hands. “They can’t all look like weasels, after all.”

            Her face hardened, and she opened her mouth to protest, but Robb was already turning away. When he spoke, it was over his shoulder as he marched away.

            “That bastard you have always hated just gave up his dream of freedom for the good of our house, and stood by while you sullied his greatest desire; making sure the face he is to spend the rest of his days with is a comely one is, quite literally, the least you could do.”

            He left her standing there alone in the dying sunlight as he jogged a bit to catch up with his brother, clapping a hand to Jon’s shoulders and trying not to burst into abject apologies, if only because he knew it would only make his brother feel worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they say romance is dead.
> 
> So, I gotta say, I was not expecting Catelyn selling Jon to the Freys to be such a controversial plot point. I mean, it's not like I didn't warn you that it was coming, you know? And it's pretty in character for Catelyn to at least try to pull something like that, and depressingly in character for Jon to just kind of...toss himself on the spear point (and brood about it later, of course). 
> 
> I guess I'm mostly surprised that so many of you seem to be taking Walder Frey at face value. I mean, come on, he's up to something. He's always up to something. It's kind of his wheelhouse, you know? So, you know, have a little faith in me; the Late Lord Frey has his own reasons for agreeing to this.
> 
> What else, what else...oh! A lot of you took me to task for saying Catelyn had a level-headed view of the world, because, let's be honest, she doesn't always act like it. But, if you read the books, you get the benefit of her internal narration, where she often has a brutally clear-headed view of the world as it really is. That she so often fails to act on that intuition is, for me, at least, one of the more frustrating aspects of her character. 
> 
> There was something else...but I've plum forgotten it. Bedtime struck right in the middle of writing this AN, and having a newborn screech in your ear tends to jumble one's thoughts a bit, you know? Anyhoo...
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, we meet Jon's bride-to-be! Stay tuned!


	29. Roslin

IT WAS THE LADY JANYCE, COUSIN EDWYN’S WIFE, WHO CAME AND TOLD HER SHE WAS TO BE MARRIED. Roslin Frey was in the castle sept, kneeling upon the cold hard stone as the septon led the gathered faithful through holy services. Normally, Roslin was all but alone; Father was scornful of the Seven and the Faith, and most of those who lived at the Twins did all they could to curry his favor and thus followed Father’s lead, leaving Roslin to go to holy services with only a smattering of servants and her own handmaid. Now, though, the sept was crowded, warm and cramped, from all the wives and handmaids and servants brought to the Twins when Father had called his banners, ostensibly to answer Lord Tully’s call. Father did not march to Riverrun, _to the shock of none,_ and so they all remained, kneeling before the Seven and singing and praying.

            It was there that Lady Janyce found her, storming into the middle of the service without so much as a _by your leave_ and bellowing, “ _Roslin! Where are you, you stupid girl?”_

All were stunned to silence, even the septon; Lady Janyce’s fury was known to all, both high and low, leaving every eye to turn to Roslin. She fought down her embarrassed flush, stood, bowed to the septon, and turned to the door, where Lady Janyce stood, glowering as only someone truly sour and bitter could.

            Roslin was young, only seven-and-ten, but she was a Frey, had spent her whole life at the Twins; she knew all there was to know of bitterness and hate, knew enough to know that there was no fighting it. She curtsied, said, “Lady Janyce. How can I serve you?”

            Lady Janyce nodded, turned, beckoned at someone standing in the hall. A woman stepped forward, a woman they all knew, had seen in the main hall just that morning. The sept was filled with a flood of whispers as Roslin performed another curtsy and said, “Lady Stark.”

            Lady Stark’s eyes raked Roslin up and down, the woman’s mouth bending into a tight, almost disdainful curl, as if she had been served bad soup an hour before and still hadn’t managed to swallow it. “Yes,” Lady Stark said, “she’ll do.” With that, Lady Stark nodded at Lady Janyce, bowed towards the image of the Father at the front of the sept, and swept from the room, the swish of her skirts almost drowned by the whispers as they grew to a fever pitch.

            If Lady Janyce noticed the torrent, she gave no sign, turning back to Roslin and snapping her fingers. “Come with me, good-cousin; there is much to do.”

            It was all Roslin could do to keep calm. “Of…” She paused, swallowed hard, stunned at the sudden dryness of her mouth. She licked her lips, blinked back embarrassed tears, and bowed her head. “Of course, my lady, but…but why?”

            Lady Janyce looked at her as if Roslin was the dumbest girl whom the gods had ever set foot upon the earth. “You’re getting married.” She looked over Roslin’s shoulder at the septon. “The service is just after sundown, by the way,” she said, as if she was speaking about the weather, “and the groom needs to be knighted, so you best wrap up this service and get out there, Cerran.” She didn’t wait for a reply, turned her attention back to Roslin, who did her best not to wilt under Lady Janyce’s glare. “As for _you,_ like I said, there’s much to do and not much time to do it in, so wipe that stupid look off you face and come with me.” With that, Lady Janyce swept from the sept, leaving Roslin to gather her skirts and run after, trailed by her handmaid.

            Roslin didn’t remember much of what followed. It couldn’t have been more than an hour, and yet, it felt as if both long days and mere moments had passed before she was being led through the northeastern gates, the sun setting on the horizon in a bloodred smear. The change between that morning and now was startling. Before, the northern host had been drawing up for battle, the world a cacophony of saws and hammers as soldiers and carpenters knocked together what even she knew was the equipment necessary for an assault. Father claimed that they had nothing to fear, but she had seen the guarded looks in the eyes of the men manning the walls, been unable to miss the fact that many of them had packs at their feet, the better to flee if necessary.

            _And the northerners had looked oh so angry, and oh so hungry for blood…_

Now, though, the carpenters had been set to a different task, and the northern men, _who, Roslin couldn’t help but notice, still seemed as angry as before,_ were joined by servants in the blue-and-grey livery of the Twins. Casks of wine and barrels of ale were being rolled out, pavilions were rising, a makeshift kitchen had been set up, there were even several boars and aurochs being slowly turned over open fires. Lady Janyce marched her past the largest of the pavilions, and when Roslin looked in, she saw men bustling about, some in her father’s livery, more in livery she did not know, men who could not hide that they were _soldiers first, servants just this once._

“Lady Janyce?” Roslin asked, as they dodged their way through the chaos.

            “Hm?” came the answer, short and sharp, a simple sound somehow devoid of pity.

            “Am I not getting married in the sept?”

            “No,” Lady Janyce replied, sounding bored. “Your new husband follows the old gods, so the septon will perform the service outside. A normal compromise, I’ve been told.”

            “Oh.” It made sense, now that Roslin had a moment to think on it. She didn’t know much about the old gods, but what she _did_ know included a lot about _trees._ _I’ll have to ask Tyta about it; she might know more._ Tyta was, after all, her half-sister, by Father and Lady Alyssa, who was a Blackwood. _Though how I can do that…_ Roslin assumed that she’d be leaving with the northerners when they marched, so she didn’t have much time. _Mayhaps she’ll be at the feast, and then we can arrange things…_

            _Wait…_

            It was only then, like a bolt from the blue, that Roslin thought to ask a rather important question. “Lady Janyce?”

            “Hm?” came the answer, short and sharp, a simple sound somehow devoid of pity.

            It took an incredible effort to press forward. “Who…I mean…who am I to marry?”

            “Lord Robert’s bastard brother.”

            Roslin felt her blood run cold. “His…his… _his bastard brother?”_

Lady Janyce shrugged, the degree to which she did not care stunning Roslin. At seven-and-ten, Roslin was old enough to know not to expect much of her family, but this new facet of callousness still managed to surprise her. “Apparently, the Young Wolf loves his bastard brother dearly, includes the boy on all his councils, listens to his advice before all others. Your lord father has decided that such a man _now_ is of equal worth to the heir at some ill-defined later date.”

            Roslin swallowed her shock. “Tru…tru… _truly…?”_ Roslin wasn’t the most knowledgeable about these things, but that still sounded… _unlike Father._

That earned her another shrug. “Who cares? It’s the bargain Lady Stark and your lord father struck, and that’s how it is. If your lord father has any other reasons, he’s not like to tell either of us, now, is he? Anyways, forget all that; here we are, and there’s your husband-to-be.”

            They had come to a copse of trees. The copse was ringed with glowering northerners bedecked in mail and plate, obviously lords, while Septon Cerran held his crystal above, bending to catch the dying light and thus send a prism shining down on the man kneeling in the grass. Roslin watched, awestruck, reeling, _feeling like she wanted to die right then and there, how can they sell me to a **bastard,**_ as her half-brother Ser Aenys gave a final tap to the kneeling man’s shoulders and intoned, “ _Arise, Ser Jon Snow, Knight of the Seven Kingdoms._ ”

            _Snow is a bastard’s name in the North,_ Roslin thought, as she saw her husband-to-be rise, bow to Aenys, nod at the septon, and finally turn to one of the northern lords, one whose fine clothes and direwolf badge marked him as Lord Stark’s heir, the young man Roslin’s father so mockingly called _the Young Wolf._ “So,” the man called Jon Snow said, smiling, “is that it?”

            “Aye,” his brother said, stepping forward to pull his brother into a hug that made Roslin wince. _Why must men be so silly about hugs?_ “Aye, Jon, that’s it. I suppose we’ll have to call you _ser_ now.”

            The northern brogues sounded so alien, _so foreign,_ Roslin almost burst into tears right then and there. All she could feel was the northern chill, all she could see was the driving snow, and she wondered how she would ever survive. 

            “Better than _my lord,_ ” her husband-to-be countered, and the northern lords all burst into laughter at some hidden joke Roslin could not begin to guess at.

            And then, all of a sudden, the young man called Jon Snow, _Ser Jon Snow,_ she corrected herself, was turning, _turning to her,_ and he was bowing, _bowing and smiling,_ and he was saying, in a kind and gentle voice, “Lady Roslin, I presume?”

            The fear was still there, the fear and the anxiety, but lessened, _dulled._ Roslin’s lady mother, the Lady Bethany Rosby, had once told her that, if she had a choice, to always choose the comely option. _It’s better if they’re fair to look upon,_ Mother had said, combing Roslin’s hair. _Marriage isn’t so much of a trial, if you like the look of their face._

Roslin looked her husband-to-be up and down, smiled, curtsied, and decided her mother had been right.

            And besides, as devout as she was, even Roslin knew how much septons liked to exaggerate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, you guys thought I was going to marry Jon to Gatehouse Ami?
> 
> So, imagine you're a seventeen-year-old girl who is, for the purposes of this story, what we would consider heterosexual*. You've spent your whole life at the Twins, surrounded by Freys, watching girls not much older than you get pawned off to your cretin of a father, and if not him, your cretinous male relatives, or other people's cretinous male relatives. Then, you get dragged out of church by your cousin's harpy of a wife and told you're marrying the bastard brother of the guy whose army has spent all day getting ready to storm your home (such as it is). You're kinda freaked out, you know?
> 
> And then, lo and behold, your fiance turns out to look like Kit Harington.
> 
> Not an unfortunate turn of events, you know?
> 
> This chapter pretty much speaks for itself. Jon's gonna marry Roslin, because deep down inside, Catelyn knows that Robb made a good point. As for the advice given to Roslin by her late mother, well, that's old advice to people in societies that practice some form of arranged marriage. When it's not unusual to find yourself marrying someone you've never met, you gotta be a bit...well...let's go with calculating.
> 
> As for the * I put by "heterosexual" up there, that's because terms like heterosexual are fairly modern inventions. People didn't used to think about gender and orientation in quite the way we do today (these concepts are way more fluid than some people these days like to believe). That's not to say people didn't differentiate (it's never been pleasant being whatever the current society defines as unnatural), but they didn't always differentiate in ways that are easy for us in the modern era to understand. 
> 
> I'm gonna stop myself there; this is a fascinating topic, and I could go on about it all day. Real quick, though, and this is a personal request...
> 
> Like, be nice to each other in the comments, okay? Like, I get that people are passionate and get invested, and that's AWESOME, I love that something I write can inspire strong emotions, but, like, be chill, you know? We're all here to have fun, and I REALLY don't want to start having to moderate comments. Please don't do that to me, guys.
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, Catelyn gets kudos from the last person she'd ever want them. Stay tuned!


	30. Catleyn

SHE HAD SEEN EVERY KIND OF WEDDING. She had seen political matches and love matches, highborn weddings and low. She had seen brides dragged to the sept by determined mothers and grooms marched in at sword point by angry fathers. She had seen happy weddings and somber weddings and had, herself, endured an awkward wedding. Indeed, her own wedding had been the most awkward wedding she had ever witnessed, both her and her sister marrying men they had never met for the basest of political reasons. By the end, her back hurt from the effort of trying to maintain a calm and noble pose, while Lysa seemed to have aged ten years from the strain of trying not to sob. She had even seen enough weddings to know that the wedding itself had little to do with the success of the subsequent marriage. Take her own, an awkward, hurried, double-blind wedding that ended in one (in her opinion) successful marriage, and one decidedly… _less so._

            So, yes, Catelyn had seen many a wedding, but she had never seen one with quite so many swords.

            _Until today._

Normally, weapons were put away before the celebratory feast, _weapons and wine made a bad match,_ but as she looked around the pavilion where the high lords were feasting, she could not find a single man without a sword at his hip. The swords, of course, were not drawn, were not even acknowledged, but they spoke with the force of a thousand voices nonetheless. This, Catelyn realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, was an alliance built upon brittle glass. There was no trust, no affection, no history, barely even any mutual interests, only bald-faced, brutal necessity. The North had needed to cross, and the Freys had wanted to be compensated for the privilege while also wanting to _appear_ as if they had answered their liege lord’s call to arms. A needle had been threaded, but no one was happy with the result.

            _Well,_ Catelyn thought, turning from the shocking sight of Greatjon Umber sipping his ale, _almost no one._ Catelyn looked towards the front of the pavilion, towards the head of the hastily assembled array of camp tables, were Robb sat next to her husband’s bastard, who, in turn, sat next to his newly minted bride. The girl kept sneaking shy glances at her new husband, and every time Jon caught her, she would blush bright red and smile like a little girl. _At least I’ve made **someone** happy, _Catelyn thought, sinking back into her chair and sipping her wine. _She must’ve been told the same thing I was told, that if you can, try to get a handsome one; things will go easier if they’re handsome._

And Jon, as much as Catelyn hated to admit it, _was_ handsome. _The Starks breed good-looking children._

            The thought was bitter, hard, cold, though Catelyn could not imagine why. After all, she herself had given birth to five fine-looking children; why begrudge her husband’s bastard son his strong jawline, good hair, and deep blue eyes? _Why begrudge him anything?_ she had asked herself what felt like a thousand times. Once, she had calmed herself by remembering that _good looks_ were all that Jon would have of his Stark blood. She had promised herself to see to _that,_ and she had, knowing all along that she was being unfair and _mean._

_And yet, here we are, and I have no one to blame but myself..._

            She took another drink from her wine, looked down into the cup, frowned. _Where did it all go?_ She didn’t remember draining the cup, it was like the wine had evaporated. It was a bad sign, she knew, but she was in a foul mood, so she ignored the voice of warning and beckoned at a passing servant for a refill. She soon got one, as befitted her rank, _the Lady Stark should not have to wait for her wine,_ and settled down to drain it.

            _I did what I had to do._ She glared into her cup. _I did what I had to do._

_We needed to cross, and we needed to cross **now.** We could not afford the delay of an assault._

_We could **not.**_

She took a moment to try and console herself with the thought that her efforts had already borne fruit. The second she re-entered the Twins and announced that the deal was agreed to, the gates had opened and, not an hour after that, her uncle the Blackfish and a hundred handpicked men had ridden through, were even now fanning out into the lands between the Twins and Riverrun, with orders to kill any Lannister scouts and outriders that they found. Soon, their numbers would grow, as her uncle picked up scattered knights and freeriders, they might even find the remnants of her brother’s army, the latest rumors had it that Marq Piper and the new Lord Vance still had a few thousand men somewhere north of Riverrun, and were gathering more while harassing the forces besieging Riverrun every day.

            _I might just have saved this campaign,_ she thought, _and all I had to do was make my son see me in a way I don’t want to be seen, though not before agreeing to a deal with a grasping old lecher who cannot be trusted._

The implications of that depressed her, and she drove them away with a deep gulp from her wine.

“I must admit, I am impressed, my lady.”

            Catelyn jerked herself out of her thoughts, turned to flash a smile as the owner of those words settled himself into the seat beside her. With a start, she realized that Ser Wylis must have fled. Lord Manderly’s son had done his best to lift Catelyn’s black mood and had met only stony silence. She thought about being angry and realized with a sigh that she could not blame him. _I barely want my own company; how can I be angry with someone else making the same decision?_

            _And besides,_ she thought, with something that lurked in the grey wastes between _white hot rage_ and _pitch-black depression, the bastard is high in the eyes of the future Lord Stark, and forms must be followed._

            She pushed the thought aside, bowed her head to her new companion. “Lord Bolton.”

            Roose Bolton returned her bowed head and did his best approximation of a smile. “Lady Stark.”

            Catelyn tried not to shiver. She had never liked the Leech Lord, with his expressions cut from stone and his eyes like chips of ice and his voice as flat and cold as the White Knife in winter. She had told Ned so on more than one occasion, and he had always agreed with her. Sadly, then as now, _duty calls,_ and, as she had drilled into Sansa’s head and tried to drill into Arya’s, _a lady must always be courteous._ “You were saying, my lord?”

            Lord Bolton let the attempted smile vanish from his face, and Catelyn instantly felt better. “I was just saying how impressed I am, my lady. You did well.”

            Catelyn’s face was carved into the perfect picture of courtesy. She liked to imagine it did not waver. “I’m glad you, at least, think so, my lord.”

            Lord Bolton pointed towards the front of the pavilion. “I’m not alone in my high regard, my lady.”

            Catelyn spared another glance towards her son and her husband’s bastard. Theon Greyjoy had joined the group. It seemed that the boy, who was far too ready to smile for Catelyn’s liking, had just finished a funny story, because Robb and Jon and even Roslin were roaring with laughter. All eyes were on Theon, and yet, the Frey girl was leaned back into Jon, one hand lost to sight, and somehow Catelyn knew that that hand was upon her husband’s bastard’s knee.

            _Yes, my lord; at least one person will be happy tonight._ “Well,” Catelyn said, turning her back on the proceedings, “it wasn’t that special, my lord. A deal needed to be struck, and I struck it.”

            “Ah,” Lord Bolton replied, lifting a finger into the air, “but it needed to be the _right_ deal, my lady. No doubt the Lord of the Crossing wanted your own son’s hand at some future date. Instead, you sold him your husband’s bastard’s hand, right now. He wanted one thing, and you gave him another of equal value.”

            Catelyn felt her face harden as her eyes narrowed. “Surely my lord is not suggesting that a bastard is of equal value to my lord husband’s trueborn heir?”

            Lord Bolton chuckled. The sound sent shivers crackling up and down Catelyn’s spine. “To you and me, my lady? No, of course not. To your son, to Lord Eddard, to some of the lords marching in this very host? Absolutely. And, if I might admit, my lady, to find a way to sell something one does not value at a high price? _That,_ that is admirable.” He leaned back, spread his hands. “I had my doubts, worries that your lord husband’s admirable sense of duty and honor would hamper us in the battles to come, but I see that I was mistaken. So long as our young lord has you to guide him, I feel that I can say, without reservation, that we are in good hands.” With that, Lord Bolton pushed back from the table, stood, and bowed. “My lady.”

            “My lord,” Catelyn replied, in a voice hollow and wooden. She watched him go, turned back to the table, and downed her wine in one gulp. She raised the cup, barked at a servant, and received a fresh cup, filled to the brim. 

            At no point did she look behind her. She was too afraid that she would find the Mother there, gazing at her with knowing eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that wasn't ominous at all...
> 
> So, I went back-and-forth on this chapter. It's somewhat of a leftover from this story's earliest forms, and there are some bits that I felt were a bit repetitive that I couldn't figure out how to scrap without fucking up the flow of the whole chapter. Because, like, there are some important things going on here, but they're mostly understated and somewhat subtle. I actually almost just scrapped it this weekend and decided to skip to the next chapter, which takes us back to the Wall and is shaping up rather nicely, but then something told me to give it one more shot and I got to the end and suddenly I decided I liked it.
> 
> Hi, everyone! Welcome to my writing process, wherein every word is born of some sort of existential crisis wherein I'm convinced I'm a shitty writer! Woo!
> 
> But no, the more I re-read it, the more I like it. Roose Bolton is just so...slimy, and I love the idea of Roslin just really leaning into what she feels (for now...) is one hell of a lucky hand. 
> 
> Plus, I like making clear to you guys that the Leech Lord is up to no good, too.
> 
> Real quick, before I go, to the Guest who just seems to hate everything I write in this story...dude, go read something else! If I'm making you that miserable, don't read my stuff anymore! It's cool! It didn't work out, you know? Maybe next time.
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, it's back to the Wall, where Sam, understandably, is having difficulty sleeping. Stay tuned!


	31. Samwell

IN A WAY, IT WAS FUNNY, HOW MUCH HE COULD REMEMBER WHEN HE CLOSED HIS EYES. When he was awake and someone asked him what had happened, Sam could barely string two words together. Fragmented images would flash before him, like a fire making shadows dance upon a wall, things he didn’t remember seeing and sounds he didn’t remember hearing and _smells he didn’t remember smelling,_ black blood smeared across the ice and Jafer Flowers screeching at the stars and the shock of Alliser Thorne being _kind_. It was all seared into his mind, but the second someone asked him to describe it, it was gone, a half-remembered nightmare that threatened to choke him with fear and horror. He would stammer and stutter and his hands would begin to shake and sometimes the questioner would get frustrated and annoyed and once Dareon had shouted at him but Alliser Thorne had appeared out of nowhere and told the singer to leave Sam alone, which, to be honest, frightened Sam more than anything.

            But then night would come, and Sam would lay down on his coat and close his eyes and it would all come flooding back, as it was happening all over again.

            _At least you haven’t pissed yourself again, **craven.**_

Sam sat up in his cot, rubbed the troubled sleep from his eyes, though his father’s voice continued to ring in his ears. He knew what the next voice was going to say, _knew what all the voices would say_ , tried to push them away, _tried to ignore them_ , but they came, just like always, the doubts and the fears and the worries that he could not seem to stop.

            He gave up on sleep, pivoted his feet off the bed, bent over and set to putting on his boots. He lost himself in the process of getting dressed, latching on to each step like a drowning man would clutch at a piece of wood. Boots, woolens, cloak, gloves, each one a step, each one a chance to push the flames and the _things that he saw_ away. But in the end, it was all for naught, as Sam had known it would be. In the end, he was standing at the door, gloved hand on the handle, feeling the chill of the iron ring through the fur-lined leather.

            In the end, he closed his eyes, thought about going back to bed, and saw the flames again.

            His eyes shot open, he gave himself a shake, threw open the door, and walked out into the hallway.

            How he ended up at the foot of the Wall, he didn’t know. He didn’t remember anything after he had shoved through his door, he only knew that he blinked and there he was, staring at the winch cage, looking up at the Wall looming over him. It wasn’t even autumn yet, back at Horn Hill it would still be hot and sunny, but one wouldn’t know it, here at the foot of the Wall. The Wall had been weeping that morning, the older brothers said that it would be weeping for some time yet, but it was still cold, _oh so very cold._ Cold radiated out from the Wall, sunk into your very bones. For a moment, Sam remembered sitting in the main hall, across a rickety, battered table from Jon, muttering about the cold, only to see Jon shrug and reply, _They say, in time, you’ll forget what it meant to be warm. I’m a northerner, it won’t take me as long as it might take you, but in the end, we’ll both be brothers in black, frozen straight through._

Sam shook aside the memory, drowning it in the chattering of his teeth as he reached out and tugged on the rope that told the winch operators at the top that someone wanted to come up. For a moment, Sam thought about walking the great switchback stair up to the top but discarded the notion as rank madness. Sam had lost almost two stone since coming to the Wall, but he knew he would never be anything but what he was. 

            He was a portly craven, no need to deny it. Father wasn’t around to beat him for it anymore.

            It was Dareon who threw open the door to the iron cage, steam rising off his shoulders as the sweat he worked up from working the winch cooled. For a moment, Sam regretted coming to the Wall, regretted not taking the stairs. Dareon had never outright _bullied him_ , but the singer was not Jon, Grenn, Pyp, not even Matthar. Dareon was lithe and handsome and smooth of tongue; surely he would have some biting remark, something about _catching a whale_ or some-such. 

            But, to Sam’s shock, Dareon did no such thing. The boy just sighed, shrugged, and said, “You, too, eh, Sam?”

            Sam frowned, hands shoved deep into his armpits, his teeth chattering from the cold. The iron cage had been winched up into a _warming hut,_ he was bathed in the light of at least a dozen torches arrayed around a roaring fire, but the Wall seemed to master it all. “Wh…wha…” Sam took a deep breath, tried again. “What do y-y-you mean?”

            Dareon sighed. “The Old Bear came up not a half-candle ago, right behind Ser Alliser. Marsh is up here, too, stomping around.”

            Sam gaped for a few moments, unsure what to say. Finally, he choked out, “The…the… _the Lord Steward?”_

            Dareon gave another of his signature shrugs. “Yes, the Lord Steward himself. At this rate, I’ll be as thin as Pyp before the night is done, working the winch as I have.”

            Sam tried to imagine himself as thin as Pyp, or as muscular as Grenn, and failed. In the end, he settled for, “Wh…wh…where did his…I mean…where did-“

            Dareon jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards the east. “Everyone else has gone that way.” He shifted, pointed over Sam’s shoulder to the west. “The Old Bear went that way.”

            Sam nodded, stepped out of the cage, huddled deeper into his furs and woolens and cloak, and turned west. He made it only a few steps before he heard Dareon’s voice, calling his name. Sam skidded to a stop, steadied himself, turned back, blinking against the light of the torches. “What was that?”

            Dareon’s voice came back out of the light, sounding somehow… _regretful._ “I said…sorry about shouting at you, the other day. Ser Alliser gave me a right bollocking about it, and Grenn gave me a good thumping, and I deserved it. I just…” A heavy sigh, and though Sam couldn’t see, _he had looked away,_ Sam couldn’t sworn he sensed a shrug. “We’re all scared, you know? I mean, if… _if…”_ Another sigh. “It doesn’t matter, it’s no excuse, just…I’m sorry, right?”

            Sam didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even know what to _think._ He just…

            _We’re all **scared…**_

            “It’s…it…it’s _alright,_ Dareon, don’t…don’t worry about it.” Sam didn’t wait for a reply, just turned on his heel and headed off to the west, after the Lord Commander.

            Even he wasn’t entirely sure why.

            The Old Bear noticed him first. “Tarly,” the Lord Commander said, the word spoken in a deep rumble, as if from the depths of the deepest cavern.

            Sam skidded to a halt in a cacophony of scattered stones and gravel and sand that his fellow crows scattered over the top of the Wall. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do. He had headed off west in the hope that he wouldn’t be noticed, that the Lord Commander might be gone, _anything at all, I just want to be alone, thinking of anything but the flames,_ or, at least, _he thought he had, **but why did I come this way, then,** _but now the Old Bear was there and his black bulk was turning, Sam could somehow sense the old man’s eyes on him, and he fell back on courtesies. He bowed, arms still wrapped tight around his body, hands shoved deep under his arms, and blurted, “My…my… _my lord._ ”

            Lord Commander Mormont scoffed, a deep, bass boom. “Horn Hill is in the Reach, is it not, Tarly?”

            “It…it is, my lord.”

            “Hmm…didn’t your father beat King Robert in battle?”

            Sam tried not to wince; gods knew he had heard the story often enough. “At the Battle of Ashford, my lord. He cut down Lord Cafferen in single combat.”

            That earned him another scoff, hard enough to bring blood boiling into Sam’s ears, hot enough to make his skin burn. “That’s what they all say, isn’t it? _Single combat._ It’s rarely so single.”

            Sam had long suspected as much, but he had never dared to point that out to Father, and he did not dare point it out now. Before, he had feared the back of Father’s hand, _Father was always ready with the back of his hand,_ but though now he knew he need fear no such thing, a part of him was not willing to risk it. All he could choke out, after many starts and stops, was, “If you say so, my lord, I wouldn’t know.”

            “Hmph,” was the reply, and then silence. Sam, not knowing what to do, turned to the right, looked out upon the wilderness, looked out upon the lands _north of the Wall._ Rangers swore that there was much and more out there, but all Sam could ever see, on the nights when he drew the watch, were trees, trees and hills and more trees and more hills.

            _Enough to drive a man mad…_

“I thought I knew it, you know?”

            Sam blinked, turned to the Lord Commander. “My lord?”

            A heavy sigh, and then, “I thought I knew it, _the lands beyond the Wall._ I thought I knew all there was to know about it, or, at the very least, _knew what was important to know._ No grumpkins, no snarks, true, just leagues upon leagues of nothing but trees and hills and valleys and more leagues, all of it infested with wildlings. I mean, what else could there be?”

            Sam closed his eyes, but somehow, it did not lessen the dread. They had all felt it, ever since that horrid night. _Like the ground’s gone out from beneath me feet,_ was how Pyp had put it. _Like everything we knew was a damned lie, and the world was nothin’ but a mummer’s farce._ The lands beyond the Wall were dark, true, _foreboding, even,_ but they were _known,_ and the only risks were the kind one could find anywhere else, the cruelties of nature and the vagaries of man.

            _But we know different now, don’t we?_

_There **is** something out there._

_**And it hates us.**_

“You pissed yourself.”

            Sam saw no point in denying the accusation, _after all, I admitted it at the time, didn’t I,_ settled for sinking deeper into himself and replying, “Yes, my lord, I did.”

            Sam couldn’t see the Lord Commander’s face in the darkness, but he couldn’t sworn that it was somehow _kind._ “Don’t feel bad about it, lad; I did, too, remember? I’m shocked no one noticed.”

            Sam felt as if the Wall was crumbling beneath his feet. He could handle his own fear; it was a fact of life, just something to be dealt with.

            He didn’t know what to do with the fear of others.

            “I still can’t believe that,” Sam finally managed to say.

            The Old Bear laughed.

            Sam had no idea what to do with _that._

            “Believe it or not, it’s true; I wouldn’t have said it if it wasn’t. I’ve never been so frightened in all my life. I felt as if I was a little boy again, listening to my nan spin tales of what happened to little children who lied.”

            Sam hadn’t had a _nan,_ but he’d had a nanny, _several of them,_ and they had spun tales, too. Tales of little boys who didn’t measure up to what their fathers expected.

            If Sam tried, he could almost forget his nannys’ bruises, could almost forget the bruises they’d given him in her fear.

            “I’m used to being afraid, my lord,” he said, not entirely sure why.

            The shadow of the Old Bear nodded. “Aye, but you’re not stupid. You knew something was wrong right away, don’t deny it, you’re craven but you’re not _stupid_ , and only a fool would’ve seen what happened down in that room and not pissed himself.”

            “If…if… _if you say, my lord…”_

“Hmph…I _do_ say, and…I…” Mormont heaved a great sigh, a sigh Sam felt in the tips of his toes, and turned. “We have to go out there.”

            Sam didn’t respond. He couldn’t, literally _couldn’t._ The fear in his bones and the dread that lurked like a shadow in the darkness beyond the Wall was creeping up his legs, was sinking its ice cold claws into his heart.

            “Aye,” the Lord Commander said, “I keep having the same reaction myself. But it’s true. We _have_ to know what’s going on, we _have_ to find out what’s happening, we…”

            A long pause, which Sam was happy for.

            The memory of Jafer Flowers’s screeching as the thing he had become caught fire took an effort to push away. So much effort, in fact, that the Lord Commander’s words were almost lost to the wind and the cold and the darkness.

            _“We have to talk to Mance…_ ”

            Sam shuddered, blinked up at Mormont. “My…my…” He stopped, swallowed hard, tried again. “ _My lord…?”_

The shadow smiled, smiled and sighed. “Don’t worry about it, Sam, at least for the nonce. Only the gods know if I can find enough men willing to go, after all…” The shadow heaved a final sigh. “Be that as it may, I have much to think upon. Thank you for coming up to talk to me.”

            “I…I…”

            The Old Bear laughed, clapped Sam on the shoulder hard enough to make Sam stumble, and passed beyond, back towards the iron cage and the winch. “I know,” the Old Bear said, “you didn’t come up here for me, but I still thank you for it. Remember, you may be afraid, but you’re no craven, _not when it counts_ , and most of all, _you’re not stupid._ Jon was right about you.” And with that, the Lord Commander was gone, vanished into the darkness of the night.

            Leaving Sam, leaning against the wind, unable to even _think_ about sleeping.

            He stayed there until the dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's gonna get real, you guys...
> 
> Alright, so, first, sorry this is almost late, it was...it was a day. Honestly, it's been a whole fucking week. The school year has started, so my wife is back at work all day, every day, and have you ever tried to do literally anything that requires concentration with a rambunctious toddler running around? It ain't easy. Plus, my sister called me yesterday and it turns out that our father died. And, like, my biological father was a real piece of garbage, you know, the usual, he was a drunk who used to beat my mom until my mom threw him out and divorced him and, like, I haven't seen him since I was eleven and haven't spoken to him since I was fourteen and the asshole died owing my mom over a hundred grand in child support which would have really come in handy a few times (like when I got really sick at four and my mom ate nothing but a sack of potatoes for two weeks so she could pay for my medicine), but, like...I dunno. I'm this weird combination of pissed off and empty and I'm still processing.
> 
> But I also love you guys, and I had this mostly ready, so I figured I'd give it a shot and sure enough, it helped to polish this up and post it for you. Sorry if it's not as proofread as well as I usually try to do.
> 
> Anyhoo, not much to say. A part of Jeor's reaction is because of changes to the timeline, and part of it is wishful thinking on my part. He was kind of an over-proud idiot in canon, and hey, what's fanfiction if you can't tweak things a wee bit?
> 
> Also, in a week or two, I'm hoping to move to MWF postings, so keep an eye out for that.
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, Jon's a bit nervous, okay? Stay tuned!


	32. Jon

HE WAS AFRAID. _No,_ Jon thought, as he turned on his heel and started pacing in the opposite direction, **_afraid_** _doesn’t cover it. I’m **terrified.**_

            He skidded to a stop, in the same spot as he had been skidding to a stop for the past... _only the gods know how long._ The whole day had been like that. That morning, they had drawn up in front of the Twins and seen that the way was shut, seen that the walls were bristling with soldiers. _They have no artillery,_ Lord Karstark had pointed out, but then Ser Wylis had produced a Myrish spyglass and Robb had looked through it, handed it to Jon, who looked and handed it around, until it came to rest in the Blackfish’s hands and the Blackfish had clucked his tongue against his teeth and said, _No artillery, mayhaps, but plenty of archers._ Lord Umber had brushed the observations away, and he hadn’t been alone; most of the lords were in favor of taking the Twins by force, to punish them for failing to answer Riverrun’s initial call to arms if for nothing else, and Robb had been inclined to agree.

            But Jon couldn’t help but remember how no one had objected when Lady Stark had offered to go inside and try to talk their way across.

            Jon had spent the whole rest of the day preparing to die. It turned out to be easier than he thought. He had no children, no sweetheart, only his family, _only his brother,_ and if the price of loyalty was a spear through his heart, _so be it,_ he had told Lady Stark that he would do anything for his family _and he had meant it, still meant it,_ but then Lady Stark had returned. It felt like no time had passed, no time and _all the time,_ but Lady Stark had returned and it had turned out that he _wouldn’t die,_ no, _he just had to give up everything,_ had to endure as his deepest, most secret dream was tarnished and poisoned, _but they had the Crossing_ and he and thousands of other men would live, and it had seemed like a good trade.

            _At the time._

Alas, now he was standing outside of the _nuptial tent,_ his bride was waiting within, and he was _afraid._

            The tend flap parted, and out stepped a young woman about the same age as his... _as his...as his **wife,**_ dressed in Frey colors. She was a tiny thing, small and wispy, with blonde hair gold as a Lannister’s and a round freckled face. She saw him, blinked in shock, before giving an awkward curtsey and saying, “Ser Jon.”

            _Which was another thing._ Jon was a _knight. How did **that** happen? _He bowed, wracking his mind for the girl’s name, _they had been introduced, after all, she was his...his...his **wife’s** handmaid, _finally coming up with, “Lady Marielyn.”

            The girl blushed bright red and giggled. “Oh, Ser Jon, I’m no _lady,_ just a handmaid.”

            Jon felt his own face burn, cursing his younger self’s folly. _Should’ve listened,_ he told himself, _should’ve listened and not skivved so many etiquette lessons. Shouldn’t you be with your brother?_ Ser Rodrik had always asked him, when Jon would appear, unbidden, in the yard. _You’ll need those lessons someday, my boy,_ Ser Rodrik would chide, as Jon strapped on protection and picked up a practice sword. Jon would always mumble and shuffle his feet, waiting for Ser Rodrik to take pity and pick out a boy for Jon to spar with. Ser Rodrik always did.

            Now Jon wished the kind old man hadn’t.

            “Well,” he mumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck, “did I at least get your name right?”

            The girl giggled. _Again._ Jon had only known his... _gods..._ his _wife’s_ handmaid for as long as he had known his _stop struggling you’re in this for the long haul **wife,**_ but it had been long enough to guess that the girl communicated almost exclusively in blushes and giggles. Which, Jon had to admit, was a stark contrast to the other handmaid, a girl named... _a girl named... **Olira,**_ who seemed to communicate ( _at least to him_ ) entirely in shrugs and sullen silences.

            Jon wasn’t sure which he preferred. He supposed that he would find out.

            “Yes, ser,” the girl replied, smiling from behind a thick lock of golden hair. “My name is, indeed, Marielyn.” She giggled some more, curtsied again, and said, “No need to be shy, ser; I assure you, my lady is _quite_ ready.”

            _At least one of us is._ Jon found himself earnestly praying that his... _gods boy just say it... **wife**_ wasn’t a maid. _At least one of us should know what they’re doing._ “Well, then I will be in shortly.”

            That earned him more giggles, a final curtsey, and then the girl was gone, leaving behind a cloud of blushes and giggles as Jon decided that he might very well end up preferring sullen and bored Olira.

            He took a step towards the tent. It should’ve been easy. There had been no bedding; Jon had not been stripped naked by handsy women before those same handsy women tossed him into bed with his...his _wife,_ who would herself have been stripped by handsy men, and Jon wouldn’t have to...well... _consummate_ his... _marriage_ to the roar of bawdy onlookers shouting encouragement and singing rowdy songs. Robb had pleaded Jon’s case and Lord Frey hadn’t seemed to care, so Lady Roslin had been escorted out to the _nuptial tent_ that had been... _erected..._ for the purpose, and Jon, after an appropriate pause, had offered a final toast to the gathered lords and followed.

            _And now I’m here…_

_A few more steps, a bit of awkwardness, and then it’s done and I’ll never go back to the Wall again...or, at least, not as I wanted to…_

_Did I want to…?_

_I don’t know...but I had friends there…_

_You have your brother here…_

_But…_

“By all that’s sacred and holy and everything that isn’t,” a voice thick and slurred from drink bellowed as a hand slammed into Jon’s back, “don’t tell me you’re standing out here bloody _brooding!_ ”

            Jon grit his teeth. _Great. Just what I need._ He shoved the hand off his back as he turned and glared into the newcomer’s eyes, regretting that he had told Larence to not worry, _stay and drink with the other squires._ “Hello, _Theon._ ”

            Theon Greyjoy threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Look, Jon, don’t take it out _me._ Remember, I _tried_ to make sure you’d know what you were doing!”

            Jon went from gritting his teeth to outright grinding them. _Oh, I remember._ How could he not? Five-and-ten, and Theon had taken both he and Robb into the Winter Town, where the madame of the brothel had cheered them and sent each boy into a private room with the three most beautiful girls in the establishment. Jon had been giddy but nervous, _as was expected,_ the girl had been in good spirits, _or pretended to be,_ had been kind and encouraging, _it’s not that hard, m’lord, right simple it is._ Jon had risen to the task, _she was beautiful and he was only human,_ but then the... _moment of decision_ had arrived and she lay beneath him, encouraging him, _I promise you’ll like it,_ and he’d known he would and he’d _desperately wanted to_ but then he just…

            _Couldn’t…_

_I couldn’t bear the thought of making another bastard…_

He’d told the girl that. _He’d had to._ She had risen and sighed, said, _We have boys, too, no reason to be shy, we keep our mouths shut here,_ and he had recoiled, _it’s not that,_ he’d shouted, instantly regretted it, sat down and explained it all and she’d sighed once more and rubbed his shoulders…

            _But she didn’t relax until he promised she’d get her full fee no matter what…_

“Fuck off, Theon.”

            As usual, his anger made not a dent in Theon’s ever-smug face. “I will, as soon as I’m done talking to you.” He slurped out of his cup, offered it to Jon. “Ale?”

            Jon desperately wanted to take the cup and drain it, if only to get rid of Theon, _but alas…_ “I can’t imagine that more drink will help the situation.” 

            Theon shrugged and had himself another gulp. “Fair enough. On the other hand, a little liquid courage might be exactly what you need.”

            Jon recalled the horror stories of marriages ruined by too much drink on the wedding night and decided that he had enough problems. “Mayhaps, but I’ve had enough, I think.”

            “Suit yourself.”

            “I will.” Jon turned back towards the tent, the Lady Roslin was a sweet young woman from what Jon could tell, _sweet and comely,_ and at least he wouldn’t have to deal with Theon, but then he couldn’t take that necessary step and he sighed and ran a hand down his face, turned back to his brother’s friend. “What did you want to talk to me about, by the by?”

            Theon grinned from ear-to-ear. “Well, they say that it’s bad luck to refuse a request on one’s wedding day, so I thought I’d-”

            Jon stopped him with a raised hand. _Oh, gods, **that.** That’s **just** what I need._ “Surely we’ve been over this enough.”

            Theon’s grin turned into a glare, and Jon found himself wondering how much of the boy’s drunkenness was real, and how much an act to put him off his guard. “Jon, please, just hear me out-”

            “ _I’ve heard you out,_ ” Jon snapped. “I’ve heard it all the way down from Winterfell, and I heard it even before that. _Enough._ Don’t you think I have enough to worry about?”

            Theon regarded him, cool and cold, but then, something happened, the tension melted from his shoulders and he sighed and finally he said, “Look, Jon, I know you don’t trust me, and you know, that’s mostly my fault, but...I just…” He downed the last of his ale and tossed the cup into the darkness and spread his arms. “I love Robb, okay? He’s my best friend, he’s like a brother to me, Lord Eddard is like a father to me, and I just...I... _I want us to win, okay?”_

 _Well, aren’t I just a prat?_ Jon groaned, rubbed the back of his neck. _Way to go, Jon, making friends and influencing people like always._ “Look...Theon…”

            “I know, you hate me.”

            Jon shot the boy a _look._ “I don’t like you, it’s true, but I don’t _hate you,_ and for what it’s worth, I trust you. Robb trusts you, so I’m willing to trust you.”

            If anything, that made Theon _more_ confused, _more_ frustrated, judging by the way his mouth screwed up into a tight grimace. “Then why won’t you listen to my plan? Robb would approve it, if only _you_ would agree. If you trust me, then why won’t you tell Robb to let me _try?”_

Jon thought about that, he really did, he thought long and hard.

            And then he answered. 

            “Because I don’t trust your father, Theon. We trust you, we just don’t trust your father. Present a version of the plan that takes that into account, and I’ll support it.”

            Theon pursed his lips, turned, walked away, walked back, walked away again, walked back once more, and when he looked up from his feet, his frustration remained, but there was also…

            _Something else…_

“Promise?” Theon said, extending his hand.

            Jon nodded, took Theon’s hand, and shook it. “Promise.”

            They stood there, regarding each other, before Theon released Jon’s hand, turned on his heel, and marched away…

            _And then he stopped, and looked over his shoulder…_

“Look, Jon...it really isn’t that complicated. Just...remember, tonight is about getting it _done_ ; you’ll have the rest of your lives to figure out how to make it _good._ ”

            “I might go to the Wall, once this is all over,” Jon pointed out.

            Theon just smiled. “No, you won’t; that’s not your way. Just...go slow, be gentle, take your time, don’t rush, and if you make it more than a handful of moments during what is, after all, _your first time,_ you are a true _king among men._ ”

Jon couldn’t help but smile. “Really?”

“You would have lasted twice as long as I did, my first time.” And with that, Theon resumed his march into the darkness, laughing all the way.

            Jon sighed, turned back around, and marched into the tent.

            _If I think about it any longer, I won’t do it._ _And besides…_

He let the tent flap fall, and realized that his...his... _his wife,_ was sitting on the rickety camp bed, a few candles burning low around the tent, wearing nothing but a sheet.

            He gulped. “My... _my lady…”_

She smiled, shy and afraid. “Ser…”

            “Please, call me... _call me Jon._ ”

            She bowed her head. “Then you must call me Roslin.”

            He looked her in the eye and smiled.

            “As you wish, my lady...I mean... _Roslin._ ”

            She blinked, clapped a hand to her mouth, and burst into laughter.

            Before he knew it, he was doubled over, laughing until there were tears in his eyes, and then they were talking, _talking and laughing,_ as he unbuckled his sword belt and stripped off his tunic and he discovered that Theon was right.

            Just stop worrying, take it slow, and it would all be quite alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's really not that complicated at the end of the day...
> 
> It's easy to forget, seeing as Jon apparently rocked Ygritte's world in canon, that the dude was a virgin when he went to the Wall. The first time with someone new is nerve wracking enough if you've done it before; the first time period is just...blah. I mean, they both find each other attractive, but it's still going to be a bit on the awkward, fumbling side of things. Fortunately, as Theon pointed out, it's not that complicated, don't overthink it. 
> 
> Sorry it's up so late, again. Neither of my sons was down with bedtime today. It was a trial. Point is, though, it's up, and we're all here for some fun.
> 
> Couple notes before we close out for the day. A lot of you objected to a Frey knighting Jon. In retrospect, I concede that you have something of a point, but to be honest, I just didn't think about it that much. The North doesn't have the highest respect for knighthood in the first place, and it sounds like the kind of the thing the Freys would throw a hissy fit over. Seeing as the North considers knighthood kind of silly to begin with (plus, the knighthood itself is kind of bullshit; Jon doesn't follow the Seven, after all), it made sense to me that Robb would be all, Yeah, whatever, let's just get this over with. But the other side of the argument makes sense, too. If I'd known how many people would be angry about it, I would've just had a Manderly or Ser Rodrik do it. So, you know, point to you guys.
> 
> What else, what else...oh! We're going to have one more post this week, on Thursday as usual, and then next week we're going to give three-a-week (Monday-Wednesday-Friday) a try. I think I can pull it off, but, you know, we'll see.
> 
> Moving on! In Thursday's episode, Roslin has a chat with her father. Stay tuned!


	33. Roslin

EVERYTHING WAS DIFFERENT.

            It shouldn’t have been, really. Roslin had sat in her father’s solar before, picking at food while Father slurped and coughed his way through a bowl of porridge. Sometimes, she would knit, and when her father was feeling unusually gracious, she might even be allowed to thumb through a book, but more often it was like this, her sitting in silence, staring at her food, the world a cacophony of slurps and hiccups and coughs and wheezes. Some days, Father ranted and raved, coughing his way through a recitation of whatever half-imagined slights were preying on his mind that hour, and on others, Father wouldn’t say so much as a word.

            So, it shouldn’t have been different, but... _it was. She_ was different. She was no longer Walder Frey’s treasured pearl, carefully cultivated from birth to be sold off in some great power play. By the Mother, she wasn’t even _Roslin Frey_ anymore. She was _Roslin Snow,_ and, if the Seven were good, might soon be _Roslin **Stark**_. She had a husband, had been wedded and bedded, seven hells, if all went well, in a year’s time she’d be lady of whatever lands her husband’s father granted him with a squalling babe in her arms. 

            And what was more, _she had places to be._ Her husband had gone south at first light, riding beside his brother as the northern host’s cavalry thundered south for Riverrun in the wake of the Blackfish and his handpicked men, while the rest of the host, the foot and some of the horse, had marched off down the kingsroad under Lord Bolton, searching for Tywin Lannister. She should’ve gone with her husband and his brother and their cavalry, but a servant in her father’s livery had interrupted her and Jon while they broke their fast and informed Roslin that her lord father wished to speak with her before she left, and so here she was, desperately trying not to pick at her skirts in anxious frustration, ever conscious of Lady Stark and their escort stamping their feet in the yard.

            She was desperately afraid of being left behind. 

            She didn’t want to be left at the Twins.

            “You’re quiet today, girl.”

            She bit down on a sigh. This, too, her father breaking leaden silence with a seemingly random remark, was not unusual.

            It had never made her want to grind her teeth in frustrated rage before, though. She wondered at that, how all the _usual business of the Twins_ seemed to make her want to claw someone’s eyes out now, when she had found it all so easy to endure before.

            _Mayhaps it’s because I’m so close to being **free.**_

            “I’m always quiet, Father.”

            Father snorted. “Are you? I hadn’t noticed. I never knew a girl could clack needles so loudly.”

            Roslin stopped her teeth from grinding. _Just barely._ “I’ve been told I clack them rather softly, Father.”

            Father gave her a hard look, his beedy eyes almost engulfed in thick, drooping lids spotted with age. “Your bedding went well, did it?”

            Roslin blinked, fought down her blush. The truth was, her bedding _had_ gone well, _as these things went._ It hadn’t been particularly _pleasurable,_ Roslin knew better than to expect that, but it had been... _surprisingly pleasant._ Her new husband had been just as nervous and jittery as her, but he had been gentle and kind and he _was_ rather comely, after all, and Roslin, to her surprise, had found herself, if not necessarily _enjoying things,_ at the very least having fun. The second time, in the quiet stillness before dawn, had been _much_ better, still not _good,_ but... _promising,_ enough so that the prospect of a long marriage had filled her with hope, rather than foreboding. 

            She took a deep breath, let it out, strangled the last vestiges of her blush in its crib. _Father never did have much patience for silliness._ “What makes you say that, Father?”

            He was still regarding her with that same beedy, piercing regard. Once, looks like that had frightened her.

            Now, they just annoyed her. _I can’t be **that** different, can I?_

_I mean, I haven’t even been married a full day._

“They say,” Father explained, a thin trickle of porridge leaking out of the side of his mouth, _as always,_ “that when a bride enjoys her bedding, come morning she is surly and prone to back-talk.”

            _Not that you would know,_ she almost snapped back. The urge to say something like that was strong, so strong it stunned her. A part of her blamed her husband. While they broke their fast on plain camp fare, Jon had asked her for her opinion on something, urged her to be frank and honest.

            _No one ever asked me my opinion before._

To her father, though, she shrugged and fought down a smile. “Well, it wasn’t _unpleasant,_ Father.”

            Father’s mouth twisted in a toothless approximation of a smile, something akin to a laugh rumbling deep in his throat. “I would imagine not! I caught you a handsome one, didn’t I?”

            _That you did._ Out loud, she said, “Ser Jon is...fair to look upon, yes, Father.”

            That brought the full laugh on, as her father threw back his head and let out one his signature throaty crackles. 

            It felt like sandpaper on her nerves. 

            “He’s more than that! Your step-mother-to-be was spitting green with envy.”

            Roslin felt her eyes flash to the corner of the solar, where the Lady Joyeuse Erenford stood, hands clasped, staring at the floor. “I can’t imagine why, Father,” Roslin said, her voice carefully stripped of emotion.

            “Why wouldn’t she be?” Father said, voice raspy with humor. “She gets sold to a decrepit old lecher so I’ll forgive her father’s debts, while you get to run off on an adventure with the handsome and dashing bastard brother of the future Lord of Winterfell.”

            Roslin felt the urge to smile, fought it down. Blank expressions and flat voices were, she had learned long ago, best when dealing with Father. “I’m not sure I’d call Jon _dashing._ ”

            Father giggled. “More dashing than me, at the very least.” Just like that, though, the humor and the smiles and the laughter were gone, as Father’s face turned stern and demanding while he jabbed his spoon at her, forcing Roslin to try not to flinch when a gob of porridge sailed past her head. “Just remember, though, I didn’t sell you so that you could spend your life gazing into the Bastard of Winterfell’s deep grey eyes.”

            Roslin put down her fork, finally surrendering the fight to eat the food that had been placed before her when she came in. “Why _did_ you sell me, then?”

            Father’s mouth twisted into _something._ It wasn’t a smile; even a fool would be able to see that.

            It was... _something else._

“Been preying on your mind, that, has it?”

            _It had._ On the face of things, the deal struck by Lady Stark and Father seemed a middling one at best. Sure, two other trueborn Stark children had been promised, but Lord Rickard was all of six and Lady Arya was either missing or had been nabbed by Lord Renly on his way out of King’s Landing. _And that was assuming that Lord Stark lets the agreement stand._ Roslin’s marriage was safe, _she was already wedded and bedded after all,_ but she couldn’t imagine a single reason why Lord Stark, for all his reputed honor and probity, would let the others remain. Take those two flimsy marriages ( _and the one for Lord Robert...no, Lord **Robb,** he told you to call him that this morning, didn’t he, the one for **Robb** and Jon’s little brother was only a hazy **maybe**_ ) out of the running, and what was Father left with? A pair of wards, a squire, the promise to not have to share any plunder with Riverrun, _and…_

_And…_

_And **me** …_

Roslin didn’t have the chance to follow that line of reasoning; Father’s voice pierced through her racing thoughts like the crack of a whip.

            “I’m glad that bastard whelp agreed to take you south with him.” She looked up, confused, _feeling rather adrift,_ watched as Father snapped his fingers at Lady Joyeuse, who flinched and stared at the floor as she rushed to Father’s side and dabbed away the little rivers of porridge that dribbled from his lips. “I was worried that I was going to have to insist,” Father continued, as if nothing had happened, _as if his future wife didn’t even exist,_ “like your half-brother had to over the knighting.” A cough, a few slurps, another cough. “Did you know they were going to let some fat old blob do the honors?”

            Roslin frowned. Jon had told her that Ser Rodrik Cassel was supposed to knight him, _but your half-brother pitched a fit, I’m afraid._ The northerners all seemed to think the whole affair was rather funny. “Ser Rodrik may be old, Father,” she said, looking down at her skirts and smoothing nonexistent wrinkles, “but he’s far from a _blob._ ”

            A long pause followed before Father spoke again, and when he did, his voice was as hard and cold as stone in winter.

            “Girl. _Look at me._ ”

            Roslin wanted to do nothing of the sort, but if it would end this horror and allow her to be away, she figured she had no choice, so, she looked up.

            Once, the expression on her father’s face would’ve left her biting back tears.

            Now, though, it just made her feel tired.

            Not that Father seemed bothered. He just sighed, set aside his spoon, and steepled his fingers.

            “I was going to let you in on a few secrets, but, alas, I’ve changed my mind. I had hoped that you would remember that you were a _Frey_ before you were a _Snow,_ or even a _Stark,_ or whatever Seven-forsaken name your prat of a new husband decides to call himself after this is all said and done. _Unfortunately,_ it seems you have already forgotten, _but no matter._ The point is, you’re going south with the army, straight on to Riverrun, and no matter where you _think_ your loyalties lie, you can still be of use to me.”

            Roslin wanted to look away, but she didn’t.

            It was the hardest thing she had ever done.

            “Surely my loyalties should be to my husband.”

            Father rolled his eyes. “ _We’ll see about that._ ” Father slurped from his cup, swallowed, leaned back, brushed a trickle of wine that dribbled from the side of his mouth. “As it is, we’re done here. Go on, run off to your bastard husband. Try and keep him alive, _please,_ and when he shoots a squalling whelp into you, do try to make sure it’s a boy.” With that, Father took up his spoon and dug back into his porridge.

            Roslin knew a dismissal when she heard one. She rose, curtsied to Father, and then to Lady Joyeuse, turned on her heel, and left, her mind swirling, her thoughts confused.

            Indeed, her thoughts were so confused that she almost didn’t notice the soldier lounging in the hallway, a flayed man upside down on his surcoat. She almost stopped to ask him his business, to enquire as to what sigil he wore, but then she thought of how much that might delay her and decided against it.

            She just wanted to be _away, dammit._ Away, far away, _anywhere but here._ She wanted to be with her husband, her husband who was kind and gentle and had such _lovely_ hair. She was thinking of that hair, remembering how she had brushed it off Jon’s face, a thrill running through her as she recalled the feel of his own fingers threading through _her_ hair, when a servant opened a door and she found herself standing in the yard, a gaggle of bored northerners standing with their horses clustered around the woman they were sworn to protect.

            _Lady Stark._

Roslin swallowed her nerves, swallowed her anger at her father, pushed aside the memories of her wedding night, and curtsied. “Lady Stark. Apologies for the delay.”

            Lady Stark looked her up and down, her eyes clouded and distant, face drained of expression. “Well, at least you’re here now.” She turned her back on Roslin, nodding at a muscular man with a square brown beard and the Stark sigil on his surcoat. “Shall we, Hallis?”

            The man named Hallis bowed, first to Lady Stark, and then to Roslin. “My ladies.” After helping them onto horses, first Lady Stark and then Roslin, the man and their escort mounted up and, with a nod at the standard bearer, led them away from the Twins.

            The air, Roslin found, was bracing, sweet, and tasted like freedom. It went straight to her head, and before she knew it, she was fighting down joyous laughter.

            It was, quite frankly, the best moment of her short life, and by the time they caught up to the northern horse and she saw her husband again, Roslin had quite forgotten about the strange man in the strange livery who had been lurking outside her father’s door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's not ominous at ALL...
> 
> Thought I'd throw you guys for a loop today, you know, post before five minutes to midnight (which is almost a Linkin Park reference). Don't get used to it. 
> 
> About the chapter, a lot of things going on here. For one things, your suspicions have been confirmed: The wedding night did, indeed, go quite well. As Roslin recalls, it wasn't earth shattering, first times rarely are (anyone who's honest will admit that it generally takes a few times to get the hang of things), but it was fun, which is nothing to scoff at. 
> 
> As for what the Late Lord Frey is up to, honestly, I'm not a hundred percent sure even he knows at this point. He up to things, wheeling and dealing, making sure House Frey comes out on top. I've encountered a few people who think that he always planned to do the Red Wedding. I'm not sure I buy that, but people who think that have a point. Walder Frey was never trustworthy. He was always going to do something. 
> 
> And, let's face it, the very first person Frey would've tried to cultivate would've been Roose Bolton, the Leech Lord himself. Is Bolton already planning to stab Robb in the back, or is he just setting up the cyvasse pieces so that, whatever happens, he and his house come out, if not on top, closer to the top than they started? Good question.
> 
> I guess we'll have to find out.
> 
> Also, as for the bit at the end, no, Catelyn doesn't hate Roslin or anything. She's just being Catelyn, with the added irritation of having been made to wait early in the morning after having had a bit too much wine the night before.
> 
> Also also, quick reminder, we're updating Monday, Wednesday, and Friday next week, so stay on your toes!
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, we pop back down to King's Landing, where Arya and Gendry have gone shopping. Stay tuned!


	34. Arya

GROCERY DAYS WERE, SHE FELT, THE BEST DAYS, IF ONLY BECAUSE THEY WERE DIFFERENT. Most days at the shop of Master Tobho Mott, for Arya, at least, or _Jeyne,_ as they knew her there, passed in dull tedium. She washed, she cleaned, one time she had even _cooked…if one was generous_. Arya had never cooked before, had barely even seen the inside of a kitchen, and while she could wash and mend and sweep with the best of them, Old Sybilla had pronounced her a lost cause with regards to the kitchens. That had been a nerve-wracking day; Old Sybilla had gone to Master Mott and told him that _this Jeyne girl that Willow found_ was a lost cause ( _Arya hadn’t been there, but Willow had listened at the door on her behalf, and told Arya everything she heard that very night in breathless whispers in the bed that they shared_ ), _surely we can find a girl who can sweep and mend and **cook,** too? _Master Mott had apparently told Old Sybilla that _this Jeyne girl_ was adequate for the nonce, _surely there’s **something** she can do that others can’t?_

 _Is there?_ Willow had said that night. _Why do you care?_ Arya had asked, trying not to sound petulant, Willow was sweet and kind and taking her anger and frustration out on the girl would be like throwing a stone at Hodor. Arya knew she had failed in the effort, but it had had no effect upon Willow. _Because you’re my friend, Jeyne, and friends look out for each other._

Arya had taken that in, _really taken it in,_ and burst into tears. She still didn’t know why, couldn’t understand what had caused her to collapse into hysterics, to bury her face in Willow’s chest and cry herself to sleep, all while Willow held her tight and patted her back and told her _that’s alright, let it out, I’ve been there, too…_

            The next morning, Arya had gone to Old Sybilla, back straight, chin out, and told the old woman that she could read.

            Old Sybilla hadn’t believed her, of course. _An urchin off the streets, able to **read?**_ she had said, incredulousness dripping from every syllable. A voice had sounded, deep in Arya’s mind, telling her to abandon all hope, to take her meager wages and retrieve Needle from the hiding place Willow had helped her make and vanish into the night, _you have coppers now, you can survive,_ but something had stopped her, something she didn’t understand, so Arya had thrown all caution to the wind, marched into Master Mott’s office, a flustered Old Sybilla in her wake, snatched a book off the shelves, opened to a random page, and began to read.

            She read one whole page, then the next, turned the pages, and started again, and all the while, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Old Sybilla’s face go from irritated outrage to cold calculation.

            _That’s enough, girl,_ Old Sybilla said, her eyes narrowed, her tone hard. She had snatched the book from Arya’s hands, closed it, set it carefully back in its place. _And where did you learn to do **that?**_

            Arya had thought her cover story all through the night and managed to deliver it with ( _to her ears, at least_ ) something approaching sincerity. _Willow’s told you that I was a part of Lord Stark’s household._

_Of course._

_Well, Lady Stark’s septon didn’t have much to do at Winterfell, so he gave lessons to all who wanted them. Mother wanted me to become a lady’s maid one day, so she made me go._

Syrio Forel had once told her that the best lies should always be founded in truth, and Syrio Forel had yet to be wrong. Septon Chayle really hadn’t had much to do back home, and he really had given free reading lessons to any servant who wanted them. No doubt he had once hoped to gather converts to the Faith that way. He hadn’t had much success, but he had continued the lessons, _probably for something to do,_ Jon had mused to her once.

            She missed Jon. She missed _everyone, **even Sansa,**_ all their endless arguments and squabbles seemed so _stupid_ now. Father was in a cell, rumor had it that Robb was marching south with an army, Sansa was a hostage of the Crown and here she was washing junior apprentices’ smallclothes and all of her differences with her sister seemed so bloody _silly._

            None of it mattered, though, because Old Sybilla had smiled and nodded and said, _Well, girl, it seems you’ve finally earned your place._

The next day, Arya was sent out with the grocery list, Hobb trailing behind to carry everything she bought.

            That had been a _small_ grocery day, when Arya wouldn’t have to go far or buy much. On _big_ grocery days, when she would have to range far and wide and buy _a lot,_ Gendry went with her, sometimes accompanied by a junior apprentice. Hobb was big and strong, but Gendry was bigger and _stronger,_ and while Hobb was kind and friendly, Gendry was stern and sullen. No one bothered them when Gendry was along. 

            And, when Arya was honest with herself, she _liked_ the days with Gendry. Hobb was just... _too friendly,_ and he was always _talking._ Gendry, though, could keep his mouth shut, and when he did talk, he talked only on two subjects, Willow and smithing, _though mostly Willow._ Sometimes, Arya felt the urge to tell Gendry that, at night, when she thought Arya was asleep, Willow would touch herself and gasp Gendry’s name. She didn’t, though.

            _No reason to make things easy for him._

            “What does a lady’s maid do, anyways?”

            Arya skidded to a stop, frowning as she tore her attention away from her list. They were on their way to the fishmarkets, _Master Mott’s nameday was coming up and he had a hankering for fried fish,_ and Gendry had maintained his usual calm silence throughout today’s excursion. She folded the list and crossed her arms, pushed aside her concern that the purse Old Sybilla had given her was depleting at a frightening speed, _food prices are rising, deliveries from the Reach are slowing, and no one seems to know why, or, at least, no one is **saying** why, _fish was still cheap _but how long would that last and will I have enough,_ and turned to face Gendry, who stood in the middle of the street, bowed under the weight of the groceries. _Thought not as bowed as the junior apprentice behind him._

 _He’s so **strong,**_ Willow was always saying, which, Arya felt, was better than when the girl thought was Willow was asleep.

            _The compliments grew more... **specific,** then…_

            “Why the bloody hell do you care?” Arya replied, adopting what she hoped was a stern, uncaring facade.

            Gendry shrugged, spreading hands that each held baskets groaning with produce. “Just wondering why a lady’s maid would have to learn to read, is all.”

            Arya rolled her eyes. She couldn’t imagine how, but she suspected that this had to do with Willow. “A bunch of reasons.”

            Gendry sighed and gave her one of his _looks._ “Like what?”

            Arya resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at the boy, turn on her heel, and march on. Say what one would about Hobb, but he was right about one thing: _Gendry was just so easy to tease._ But they had to get to the fishmarket, and then they had to rush back before the late summer sun made the fish go bad. 

            Arya had already learned the dangers of _that._ She had brought bad fish back to Old Sybilla exactly _once,_ and Old Sybilla had bent Arya over her knee and given her a good birching. Arya had been birched before, Mother was a big believer in sending for the nanny to deliver punishment, but this had been different. This had _hurt,_ and Arya hadn’t been able to sit for the rest of the day.

            Arya would rather not experience that again.

            “Like...oh...some ladies like to be read to as they go to sleep.”

            Gendry made a face. “And ladies can’t read to themselves?”

            Arya groaned and rolled her eyes. _Why are boys so **stupid?**_ “Not if they’re trying to sleep, _dummy._ They’re in bed with their nightclothes on, they don’t want to be holding a _book._ ”

            Gendry blinked, looking at her with something approaching awe. “You’ve read a book?”

            Arya had read a book, _many books,_ but something told her to hold that information back. Somehow, she knew Gendry would never betray her, she could tell him the truth and he would never sell her out, but he would tell Willow, and Willow would feel a duty to tell Old Sybilla, and Old Sybilla would run to tell Master Mott, _and then…_

_And then I can join Sansa in her gilded cage…_

“Not all the way through,” Arya lied, _she had read **The Loves of Queen Nymeria** so many times Maester Luwin had had to send to the Citadel for a fresh copy, _“but a few pages here and there.”

            Gendry nodded, taking this information in. “And do you think...well…”

            Something clicked into place deep in Arya’s mind, and it was all she could do to stop herself from bursting into laughter. _Of course, smithing or Willow._ “Willow’s already impressed with you, you know.”

            Gendry blushed bright red, even his heavily muscled arms seemed to turn a shade of purple. “Well, I mean...I just think…”

            Arya threw back her head and laughed. “If you want to learn that badly, I’ll teach you. Now,” she continued, brushing out her servant’s dress and gesturing down towards the docks with the folded list, “can we buy Master Mott’s fish now?”

            Gendry sighed and started to walk down the street once more, the junior apprentice behind him almost groaning in relief. “Why am I friends with you again, Jeyne?”

            Arya giggled, and tried not to be surprised at the fact. “Who wouldn’t want to be friends with me?”

            “Anyone with sense,” Gendry muttered.

            Arya flipped him the V for _that and_ laughed all the way to the market.

            Her laughter died, though, when a fishmonger gave her his price for a gross of cod. “That’s sodding _robbery!”_ she shouted.

            The fishmonger shrugged, wiping his neck and brow with a sweat-stained rag. “Mayhaps,” he said, in a voice that sounded as if he gargled gravel in his spare time, “but that’s my price.”

            Arya crossed her arms and shot him an angry look. “ _Mayhaps,_ ” she said, in a mockery of his voice, “I should go find a better price.”

            To her surprise, that earned her another shrug. “Do as you will, girl, but you won’t find anything better. We’re getting nothing from the riverlands, and Dragonstone has galleys prowling the Rush.”

            Arya did her best to appear nonplussed. She was already suspecting that the man spoke true, but she had, over the past few months, become known as a hard bargainer, and she had a reputation to maintain. _Don’t let her small size fool you,_ she had once overheard one fishmonger tell another, _that one has a bite to match her bark._ “Like Lord Stannis cares a fig about fishing boats.”

            “Well,” the fishmonger said, waving his sweaty rag towards the docks, “mayhaps you’d like to go down and tell the fishermen that. Mayhaps you can convince them where I have not.”

            Arya did her best to ignore Gendry’s chuckles. “Like they’d listen to a little girl. Surely the Rush isn’t your only source of fish?”

            The fishmonger sighed. “Like I said, the riverlands are still closed.”

            Arya laughed. “The Tullys are beaten and Riverrun is under siege.” She was good at being calm about that now. _In public, at least._ “Everyone knows that.”

            “True,” the fishmonger admitted, “but the Mountain is still on a rampage, Lord Lannister is sitting with an army at the Trident, and now the Young Wolf and his bastard brother are coming south, so the riverlands remain closed.”

            Arya stayed calm.

            Somehow, she stayed calm, calm and cool and collected and _angry,_ though the anger was feigned, the fishmonger was right and she could sense that his was the best price she could get, so she ranted and raved and finally paid for half the amount of fish Old Sybilla had sent her out for, but it was good fish and fresh and so she wouldn’t get birched today.

            On their way back, she chatted with Gendry, even teased him a bit, but her heart wasn’t in it, because for a moment, they caught sight of the Red Keep and she almost burst into tears.

            _Just a bit longer, Sister…_

_Just a bit longer, and then our brothers will come and free Father and we can finally make the Lannisters **pay...**_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And you've got a new sister-in-law, too!
> 
> Things are going to be a bit fire-in-the-circus for a few weeks here, what with three-a-week updates (fingers crossed!) and the Starks riding into battle and a few dollops of foreshadowing here and there, so I thought, Hey, let's have a quick breather with Arya and her developing Bros Thing with Gendry! I also like getting the chance to put my History degree to good use, you know? Like, lady's maids, like most senior servants, really were expected to have some degree of literacy, and parents who wanted their kids to rise higher than, say, scullery maid or stableboy would be on the lookout for cheap education, which generally came in form of the village priest or, if you lived near a university (like, say, in Paris or Salamanca or Oxford), starving students, because some things never change. Now, we're not necessarily talking about what we, today, would call literacy, but it was to one's advantage to be able to, say, read a few pages or help Her Ladyship make out invitations for a party. And, when you're Old Sybilla and you might very well be the only literate person in the shop, you're going to jump at the chance to make someone else do the grocery shopping.
> 
> I can go on about that all day, so I'll stop right there and head of one comment off at the pass: Isn't Arya worried about being seen in public? Well, for one thing, who would expect to find the Lady Arya Stark haggling over fish down at the King's Landing fish market? I mean, you and I would look for her in places like that, but we know Arya, unlike, say, the Lannisters. For another, the Lannisters aren't really looking for her anymore. It's been a few months, so as far as they're concerned, the girl is dead, fled, or worse, so best to write her off and spread rumors about Renly Baratheon making off with her when he fled the city. In the meantime, they've got bigger fish to fry, you know?
> 
> What about the Spider, you ask, to which I say, We'll just have to see, now, won't we?
> 
> Moving on! In Wednesday's episode, when the knight has to go, someone's gotta hold his damn horse. Stay tuned!


	35. The Outrider

THEIR INSTRUCTIONS WERE CLEAR: NEVER BE ALONE, AND NO STOPS. But hard riding meant hard pisses and hard shits, and so there Koryn was, holding the reins of two horses, tapping his foot and waiting for Ser Morsan to finish shitting.

            _As usual._

            Koryn tried not to groan. Ser Morsan wasn’t _quite_ Koryn’s liege lord, but the sanctimonious knight’s uncle was, and that was enough to make Koryn bite his tongue and wait. Lord Edam was alright, as lords went, but the man wasn’t known for softness or laxity. To Koryn’s knowledge, Lord Edam had never hanged a man who hadn’t had it coming, which was far more than Koryn could say for Lord Lydden next door. Even so, Lord Edam was not like to thank any man who left his lackwitted knightly nephew unattended, all of which came back around to Koryn, holding on to two horses, _waiting._

 _And the campaign had started out so well._ There had been ample opportunities for looting, two full battles, one beneath the Golden Tooth, the other before the walls of Riverrun. Koryn had walked away from the first with a fine coat of mail, and from the other with a good pair of boots and a fat purse of coin, but then Ser Jaime had settled them in for a siege and the river lords had started raiding and those same Seven damned river lords were even rumored to be mustering a new army and scouts had been disappearing so here he was, holding two horses, _waiting._

_Waiting, and **bored.**_

Koryn tapped his foot a few more times, opened and closed his hand on the reins of Ser Morsan’s horse, and sighed. “Go check on him.”

            From the next horse over came a sigh. “You go check on him.”

            Koryn bit down on a groan. Clatton, he tried to remind himself, was but a boy, barely six-and-ten, and prone to thinking he was better than he was, as all boys that age were. _He had best learn to curb that tongue of his,_ Koryn thought, _else he’s like to end up walking the Wall before long, or worse._ “I’m senior,” Koryn snapped, “so you go check on him.”

            “Four years ain’t much to be called _senior,_ ” Clatton grumbled.

            Koryn leaned around the snouts of the horses he was holding. “But it’s still senior to you, _boy,_ ” he snarled. He wasn’t really all that angry, but the boy had to learn to mind his manners and his tongue. Koryn wasn’t entirely sure why he cared; Clatton was just another village boy, not unlike himself. _Why should I bother?_

But dammit, he liked the boy, and that silly girl Laina was sweet on him, and Laina was Koryn’s betrothed’s cousin, _would be his wife’s cousin, but they were waiting on the septon to come ‘round when the call to arms had come, so Anicia was still just Koryn’s betrothed, for all that they already had a daughter together, and another babe on the way,_ so what was Koryn to do?

            So, instead of turning around and striking the boy to his knees, like any proper senior would do, Koryn gritted his teeth and said, “And it’s definitely senior enough to tell you what to do, so go check on our knightly master and make sure he’s alright.”

            Clatton huffed and puffed and stomped his feet, but then he curbed his horse on a handy tree and turned and started to walk back towards where Ser Morsan had gone to shit.

            Not that he got there. Not that he got anywhere. Clatton took three steps before he gasped. Koryn looked, just long enough to see Clatton’s hands fly to his throat, the throat which had just sprung an arrow. Blood shot out from the boy’s throat, gushed from the boy’s mouth, and Koryn watched, stunned, as blood oozed between the boy’s fingers and the life drained from the boy’s eyes.

            Ser Morsan burst into sight just then. Ser Morsan was Koryn’s age, just a boy, _Koryn had never felt so young,_ Ser Morsan had a sword in his hand and pants around his ankles, his manhood swinging in the breeze, Ser Morsan was shouting, _screaming,_ and then a man came galloping out of the trees, a man with a silver eagle emblazoned on his chest, and the man with the silver eagle ran Ser Morsan through with a lance while screaming _Riverrun,_ and Koryn didn’t think.

            He had his orders, so he jumped up on his horse and ran away.

            He heard the rest of the party struggle, scream, and die, saw so many other badges, twin towers and white starbursts and roaring giants, but still he rode. He had to get to the main army, had to get to Riverrun, _had to tell Ser Jaime,_ the silver eagle was Mallister and the twin towers were Frey, but the others Koryn didn’t know, Lord Edam’s maester had told them was the various river lord badges meant but he hadn’t covered _those_ , which could only mean northerners and Ser Jaime needed to know that, needed to know that the Starks had crossed the Green Fork and that the Starks were coming _and-_

Koryn blinked. He didn’t remember hitting the ground, but there he was, head spinning, eyes full of stars. He looked around, blinked some more, saw that his horse had three arrows in it, saw that his horse was kicking and screaming, the life draining from its eyes just as the life had seeped from poor Clatton’s. Koryn looked away, tears streaming from his own eyes, whether from the pain caused by the leg that was twisted in such an unnatural way or from something else, he did not know, hadn’t the time to learn.

            A man was marching towards him, a man with yet another silver eagle on his shield, a man with an axe, and that axe caught a bit of light through the trees, that axe flashed white in the glittering sunlight as it swung for his head.

            _Anicia, I’m sorry…_

            Koryn knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor guy, we hardly knew ye...
> 
> You know, guys, we might actually pull off this switch to three-a-week posting! I mean, we're only two posts into it, but it's going pretty well! Plus, I think we were all ready for the narrative to start well and truly picking up.
> 
> And you guys think I don't listen to your complaints...
> 
> Anyhoo, this one is pretty self-explanatory. One of you guys asked if the Blackfish is in this, and he is; he couldn't knight Jon because he had already taken his picked men across the Crossing and started fanning out into the riverlands the second Walder Frey raised the gates and opened the bridge. And what're they up to? Well, exactly what they were up to in canon.
> 
> Which means that men have started to die. War sucks ass, doesn't it?
> 
> For those playing the home game, if you're writing GoT/ASOIAF fanfic and you need Westerosi names, the Internet is a capricious, albeit giving, mistress, and there are a surprising number of Westerosi name generators floating around on the internet. Just Google "westerosi name generator" and go to town!
> 
> Moving on! In Friday's episode, the Kingslayer is bored, and really wishes something would happen already. Stay tuned!


	36. Kevan

THE KNIGHT DIDN’T LOOK MUCH LIKE A KNIGHT. Most knights Ser Kevan Lannister had known were sticklers about their appearance, even on campaign. Squires and pages polished their armor and brushed their horses, while camp followers ( _or even servants brought from home in the case of some of the higher lords, not unlike Kevan himself, he had no problem admitting_ ) scrubbed their clothes and cooked their meals. Even their hair was often carefully and lovingly maintained; most knights Kevan knew of, especially the younger ones, spent as much time on their hair as any blushing maid.

            The knight standing at the foot of the table, though, was none of that. His hair had been cut short to his skull, probably to prevent lice, and he wore an unkempt, rather haphazard beard. His armor consisted of a coat of mail and mismatched bits of plate to cover vulnerable places like arms and shins. It was obviously well cared for, but it all had a rather old, beaten quality to it. The knight himself seemed rather beaten, with dark circles under his eyes and a sheen of old sweat clinging to his skin, giving an impression that was not helped by the dried blood stains splattered across the chest of his surcoat.

            Kevan let his eyes drift down to the sword hanging from the man’s hip and felt an approving smile prick at the corners of his mouth. The man didn’t look much of a knight, but something told Kevan that, were he to ask the man to draw the sword, he would find it wicked sharp without so much as a speck of rust or grime.

            Kevan turned to his brother, who sat at the head of the table, the better to glare down the length of it at the knight who had just been ushered into the command tent. “He doesn’t present a very knightly image,” Kevan said, “but he looks like he knows his business.”

            Lord Tywin Lannister grunted, tapping steepled fingers against his lips, but said nothing, letting the silence stretch out a few minutes more. The gathered lords and commanders began to fidget while trying to look like they were doing no such thing, while the travel-and-war-stained knight stood in attentive silence, eyes fixed on a point somewhere above Tywin’s head.

            Finally, Tywin moved, picking up his cup, taking a sip of wine, and saying, “I don’t know you.”

            It was not a question, and to the man’s credit, he didn’t treat it as such. “I would imagine not, m’lord. Lord Moreland took me into his service only a few days before he marched to meet you at Silverhill.”

            Tywin nodded. “So, you’re a hedge knight, then.”

            The man shrugged. “If it pleases you, m’lord.” The urge to smile was stronger now, but Kevan fought it down. He had to admire the man’s calm; if he knew that the Lord of Casterly Rock had a low opinion of hedge knights, he didn’t show it.

            Tywin’s face, though, remained calm and expressionless. “Your name.”

            “Ser Bandar Wensington, m’lord.”

            “And you are sworn to Lord Moreland.”

            “I am, m’lord. When your lordship called for scouts and outriders, Lord Moreland offered me and a few others for the job.”

            “You’re not of the Westerlands,” Ser Addam Marbrand observed from across the table.

            Ser Bandar shook his head. “No, m’lord. From the Stormlands, grew up down on the Marches, blooded me sword on Dornish necks.”

            “Is that where you earned your knighthood?” Kevan asked.

            “No, m’lord. I saved the life of Lord Caron on the Trident, and the man knighted me by way of thanking me. I’d still be down at Nightsong, m’lords, but Lord Caron died of a chill, him and his wife and most of his children, and the steward who took over while the little lord was growing got House Caron excused from mustering for the Greyjoy Rebellion and, well, I didn’t feel like missing out.” Ser Bandar shrugged. “And now, here I am.”

            “Wouldn’t you rather be back in the Stormlands?” Kevan asked. It was, he felt, a reasonable question. The Stormlands, along with the Reach, had been eerily silent since King Robert had found himself on the wrong end of a boar, though there were rumors of levies being called and swords being gathered. _And Lord Renly remains... **somewhere**_. Lord Renly was an unknown quantity, and Kevan liked unknowns even less than his brother did. It didn’t help that Renly Baratheon might very well just be lying low. It would be the prudent course, especially with Cersei bleating far and wide that the man had kidnapped Arya Stark and taken her south.

            Kevan really wished his niece would let that particular accusation drop. Her refusal to admit that she had lost the girl was becoming embarrassing. 

            And while these wheels turned in Kevan’s mind, Ser Bandar answered with a scoff. “By the Seven, why?” he said, a bemused smile on his face. “Last I heard, they wasn’t mustering for nothing more than show, and even if they did, who would they declare for? That poof in Storm’s End?”

            That sent quiet, restrained chuckles rippling around the table, but only for a moment. Men who did things like _laugh out loud_ weren’t prone to remaining in Tywin’s presence for long.

            “Well, then,” Tywin said, taking a final sip of his heavily watered wine before setting his cup down, “now that we know you, tell us what you saw.”

            The man did. His stormlands accent was grating, and his words were uncouth and occasionally bordered on obscene, but his report was clear, concise, and to the point. Ser Bandar had been put in command of about twenty men and told to scout up the Green Fork until he caught sight of either the Twins or the northern host, whichever he saw first. As it happened, he found the northmen, a large host of at least fifteen-to-twenty-thousand men, both foot and horse, at least three- or four-days easy march down the Green Fork from the Crossing. At this point, Tywin called for a map, and Ser Bandar showed that, whether he had his letters or no, he could read a map just fine, and sketched out his findings.

            “You don’t have a more exact count of their numbers and their composition?” Kevan inquired.

            “Apologies, m’lord, but their scouts and outriders were out in force, and the amount of luck needed to get as close as we did had me feelin’ mighty skittish.”

            “And you saw Stark banners?” Lord Lefford asked.

            “As thick as dead leaves in autumn, m’lord,” Ser Bandar replied. “And a great big one, right at the front of the column.”

            Lord Lefford looked to Tywin. “That’ll be the boy, then.”

            Tywin nodded, lips pursed in thought as he looked at the map and took in the hedge knight’s report. “But you were seen?”

            “That, I don’t know as for sure, m’lord,” Ser Bandar said. “We were ambushed a few days south of the column, as we was returning here. No northmen as I saw, but rivermen aplenty. And organized, too,” he continued, heading off the next question. “They wasn’t no broken men, m’lord.”

            Tywin’s eyes flickered to Kevan, and Kevan read his own thoughts mirrored within them. He nodded, turned to Ser Bandar. “Do you think they let you get away?”

            Ser Bandar shrugged, rubbed the back of his neck, the first sign of nerves that Kevan had been able to detect since the knight had been ushered in. “That, I can’t say, m’lord. Mayhaps I got lucky, mayhaps they did. All I know is what I saw, that and that I put me faith in me sword, me shield, me armor, the Warrior and the Smith.”

            Tywin looked up from the map. “I noticed you didn’t mention luck.”

            Ser Bandar gave a small, tight smile. “No, I didn’t, m’lord.”

            Tywin didn’t return the smile, but Kevan didn’t miss the spark of approval deep in his brother’s gold-flecked, pale green eyes.

            “Indeed,” Tywin said, before returning his gaze to the map and flicking a hand. “You’re dismissed, Ser Bandar, with our thanks. I will be consulting with Lord Moreland about a suitable reward for your service.”

            “M’lord,” Ser Bandar replied, before turning on his heel and striding from the tent.

            As soon as the flap closed behind him, Tywin looked to Lord Moreland. “Lord Robin?”

            “Yes, my lord?”

            “I hope you won’t mind if I steal Ser Bandar from you.”

            Lord Moreland bowed his head. “Be my guest, my lord.”

            Tywin nodded, turned to Kevan. “Thoughts?”

            Kevan knew better than to give his thoughts on Ser Bandar; Tywin would expect him to take care of the man’s placement and reward without bothering the Lord of Casterly Rock about it. “Could be a feint, could be the real thing.”

            Tywin grimaced. “Yes, my thoughts exactly. Feint or no, I do believe that Lord Stark’s boy is with this army, facing me is where a callow, inexperienced boy would want to be, but if the Freys have finally picked a side, even a relatively small, mounted force could cause Jaime serious problems.”

            “Especially if the river lords are not as beaten and scattered as we’ve been led to believe,” Kevan pointed out.

            Tywin’s grimace grew deeper and more pronounced. “Indeed...write to Jaime. Send both ravens and riders. Tell him what we’ve heard and remind my son of the importance of not assuming that an enemy is done before they bend the knee.”

            “At once,” Kevan said, bowing his leave, first to his brother, then to the assembled lords and commanders, before heading for the exit.

            He almost made it through, but he was stopped dead in his tracks, mouth agape, as his nephew Tyrion can strolling in, a bit worse for wear but otherwise quite alive, smiling from ear-to-ear and accompanied by three of the most monstrous-looking barbarians Kevan had ever had the misfortune to see, much less meet.

            “Father!” Tyrion said, spreading his arms wide.

            “Tyrion,” Tywin replied, voice hard and cold as frostbitten steel. “You’re alive, then.”

            Tyrion bowed. “Sorry to disappoint, Father.”

            Kevan didn’t waste any time. He nodded at Tyrion, bowed once more to Tywin, and made no effort to conceal the fact that he was fleeing the oncoming confrontation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! It's Tyrion!
> 
> I was afraid I wasn't going to get this up today. I was legit freaking out that I was going to blow my first week of three-a-week posting, but turns out I needn't have worried, because I managed to pull it together in the end! For those playing the home game, I was, indeed, going to post a Jaime chapter today. My older son had school, so I dropped him off, got my three-month-old son settled in his bouncey chair, and got ready to edit and post. Only one problem:
> 
> I hated it.
> 
> Like, just loathed it. It had been a tough chapter to write, and now I realized that the problem was that it sucked and was stupid and served very little purpose. I was just having Jaime snarkily restate things I had written elsewhere, and it was like, Fuck this chapter. So, I tossed it in the document where I store all my fragments and discards (you'd be surprised how useful keeping the deleted bits and pieces can be) and started all over again. This time, it all just flowed.
> 
> What can I say? Sometimes you just have to create a really cool OC and let things roll from there.
> 
> Plus, this actually serves a purpose, and scratches a personal itch. I recently stumbled across Lex Luthor Triumphant, which is an old fanfic about, well, Lex Luthor winning, and it is just one of the single most disgusting fics I've ever had the misfortune to read. It's just...blergh. I definitely hate-read it. And you know? Tywin is kind of a Lex Luthor-esque figure, in that he tends to assume he's the smartest man in the room, because, in general, he is.
> 
> Only problem is that he's also a gigantic fucking idiot. A complete and total pillock, as the Brits would say, can't imagine that someone else has his number. It's same reason Luthor always loses.
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, a peasant wonders just what the hell that was all about. Stay tuned!


	37. The Peasant

“WE’RE LOST.”

            Pate came to a stop and sighed, shifting his spear from one shoulder to the other and digging through his pack for the map. “No,” he said, turning to face his cousin, “we’re not. The old woman said to follow this track and it’d take us straight to Fairmarket, and from Fairmarket we just follow the Blue Fork back home.” He finally got the map out, leaned his spear against a handy tree, started to carefully unfold the much-creased and much-abused parchment. “Besides, the map says-”

            Darrin, his cousin, cut him off with a groan. “Oh, by the Seven, Pate, enough about the fucking _map._ ”

            Pate stopped his unfolding to glare at his cousin. “It’s led us true so far,” he pointed out, rightly, he felt. It really had been vital, which was only fair; he’d had to touch a dead man to get it, and Nan had always said that dead men’s belongings held strange powers. Of course, Nan had never explained just what those powers _were,_ but Pate felt that they had to be _something._

            “How would you even know?!” Darrin shot back, his frustration making his pox scars flash bright red against his pale skin. Pate hated it when that happened; it made it impossible to take his cousin seriously, which was a problem at times like this, when he needed to. “You can’t even read the sodding thing.”

            “Like you could?” Wat pointed out, strolling up to join the conversation, his own spear balanced across his shoulders, his hands dangling over the ends. “None of us know one letter from the other.”

            “That’s my point!” Darrin replied, turning towards Wat. “We could be halfway to fucking _Dorne_ and my idiot cousin would never know!”

            “Hey now,” Wat said, throwing Pate a sympathetic look, “Pate’s no idiot. He got us away from the pig’s ear at the Golden Tooth, right?”

            Pate tried not to grimace. He appreciated Wat’s support, but it didn’t make him feel any better. Wat never did, no matter how nice he was. Pate knew that he was being unfair, it wasn’t Wat’s fault that Pate was ugly as sin, all knees and elbows and ears big as Harrow Tower, while Wat was the handsomest boy for twenty leagues ( _not that Pate knew what a league was, it was just something people said_ ), but somehow, _knowing_ he was being unfair just made it all that much harder to _stop._

Meanwhile, Darrin’s face was turning hard and stubborn. “Yeah, yeah, Pate kept his head and got us clear, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s got us _lost._ We should’ve stayed with Lord Vance.”

            Now it was Pate’s turn to groan. _I swear by the Seven, if I have to hear that one more time…_ “It was Lord Vance himself what told us to go,” he pointed out, which was true. A week after the panicked rout from the Golden Tooth ( _and what a horror that was, Pate sometimes wondered if he would **ever** stop having nightmares about the avalanche of Lannister horse that came thundering down on them_), they had stumbled upon what remained of the great host they had once been a part of. Lord Vance himself, _the new Lord Vance, at least, the old one having been cut down by the Kingslayer himself_ , had spoken to them, then asked if any of them could ride. None of them could, of course, the closest Pate had ever gotten was when his father would put him on one of the village plow horses when he was a boy, so Lord Vance had sighed, given them each a handful of coppers, and told them that they might as well go home, try to get another harvest in.

            “Well, we could’ve gone to Riverrun,” Darrin said, digging his heels in further, _just like every day._

            Wat rolled his eyes. “How many times are we gonna have to go over this, Darrin? We _tried_ that, _because you said we had to find Lord Roote,_ and thank the Mother we never got very far.”

            That seemed to strike home, or at least Pate hoped as he watched his cousin’s pox scars fade to a less absurd shade of red. Even Darrin, stubborn as a mule though he was, couldn’t explain away the shattered remnants of Lord Tully’s army that they had encountered streaming north from Riverrun. “Well,” Darrin muttered, shouldering his spear once more and stomping his way around and past Pate, “we’re still lost…”

            It took quite an effort to not just jam his spear through his cousin’s back, but somehow he managed. He concentrated instead on folding the map back up and shoving it in his pack, while Wat stepped up beside him and said, “Do we really have to do this every day, Pate?”

            Pate shrugged, retrieved his spear, and started to follow in his cousin’s wake. “He’s just still shook up from the battle, he’ll get over it.”

            Wat scoffed, sounding unconvinced, which, Pate felt, was fair. “Fine, but if he harps on about how we should’ve stayed with Lord Vance again, I’m going to shove this spear up his arse.”

            “Oi!” Pate replied, shooting Wat what he hoped was an intimidating look. “He may be a pillock, but he’s my cousin, right? If anyone kills him, it’ll be me.”

            Wat shrugged, his dangling hands shifting up-and-down with the spear across his shoulders. “Fair enough,” and with that, they all fell into silence, _more or less,_ seeing as Wat started whistling after a few dozen paces. Which, Pate felt, was better than his cousin’s usual sullen, brooding silence.

            The whistling had a few added benefits, too, such as giving musical accompaniment to Pate’s own brooding. _And there was a lot of brooding,_ with reason, Pate felt. After all, it really had been a _miserable_ war, which was a shame, because it had started off so well. Lord Roote had sent men riding out through the villages, calling the muster, and Pate, Darrin, and Wat had all formed up with a half-dozen other boys from the village and gone off, cheered and applauded on their way by their whole village, the girls blowing enough kisses at Wat that Pate could imagine some of them were for him. They’d all even had weapons, seeing as Pate and Wat’s fathers had both fought in the war when the stag rose against the Mad King and thus knew how to weave shields out of wicker and make proper fire-hardened spears. Even the muster at Harroway town had had a bit of a festival air to it, with Lord Roote managing to give a decent speech that Pate had _mostly_ understood.

            But then had come the long, dreary march to Riverrun, a castle they hadn’t even stopped at, just marched right past, sure, it had been a pretty sight, and Pate had never been so far from home, but he had _never been so far from home_ for quite a while now, so he would’ve liked to have actually gone up and _seen_ Riverrun, if only to break the monotony of _being so far from home._ It didn’t help that his cousin wouldn’t stop complaining and Wat was as big a hit with the girls in other villages as he had been back home and, well, as good as Lord Roote’s speech had been, Pate still had only a vague idea of just exactly _why_ they were going to fight the Lannisters. Sure, _His Lordship said so, and that’s the way it is,_ but Pate would’ve liked if someone had bothered to explain why it _mattered_ that some ugly bastard called _the Mountain_ had burned villages Pate had never seen and probably never would.

            Then had come the _wait,_ and with the wait came _boredom,_ and then, _just like that,_ the trumpets were blowing and they were forming up and Lord Roote was riding up and down, giving another speech, and then the trumpets blared once more and the lions were upon them and it was all over. Pate had had such high hopes for his first battle. He had hoped for some plunder, maybe a coat of mail or a helm or, by the Mother’s Mercy, a nice pair of boots, but alas, there had been no plunder, just a horror of steel and blood and screams and thundering hooves and then the line broke and Pate had found his cousin, frozen in fear, and Pate hadn’t thought, he’d just grabbed his cousin and dragged him towards the trees, grabbing Wat and dragging him along when he found him, and there they’d hidden until it was all over and they’d managed to slip away.

            The only plunder had been back at camp, where they’d managed to swipe a few bags of provisions before the Lannisters got to it, after which they ran back to the woods. Camp was where Pate had gotten the map, prying it out of a dead man’s hands, and now here they were, wandering up a forest track, a _good_ forest track, true, but a forest track nonetheless, and the map _said_ that they were headed in the right direction, _or at least, Pate **thought** it said they were, his cousin was more right than wrong about Pate’s ability to understand the damn thing, _and Pate _still_ didn’t really understand what all the damn bloody fuss was about, and if they could just-

            “You there! Explain yourselves!”

            Pate skidded to a stop, right into his cousin’s back, not a moment before Wat skidded into his own in turn. That they didn’t all go down in a heap barely fit for the worst kind of mummer’s farce Pate could only attribute to the capricious mercy of the Seven. In the end, though, they did manage to disentangle themselves, and when they did, they found themselves facing a rider.

            _No, not a rider,_ Pate corrected himself, _a soldier._

And it was a _real_ soldier, too, mayhaps even a _knight._ The man sat tall in his saddle, a sword at his hip, a spear in his hand, clad in mail as hard and cold as the glare on the man’s face as he pointed that spear at them and barked, “I asked you a question. Who’s the leader here?”

            Pate watched, dumbfounded, as his cousin somehow vanished from in front of him and reappeared just behind Wat’s shoulder, while Wat himself gave Pate a shrug.

            “Since when was I the fucking leader?” Pate blurted, unable to keep the whine from his voice. It really was grossly unfair.

            That earned him another shrug from Wat. “You’re the one what saved our lives, Pate.”

            “And you have the map, too,” Darrin threw in from behind Wat.

            That was just too far, but what was he to do? Flip his cousin the V, sure, _which he did,_ but after that, he turned to the soldier/knight/ _whatever_ and said, “Me, I guess, ser.”

            “I’m no _ser,_ ” the man shot back, looking offended.

            _Ah._ Pate bowed. “Apologies, m’lord.”

            That earned him a burst of scornful laughter. “I’m no a lord, either, but you’d best explain yourself before I ride you down. Why do you have spears?”

            Pate swallowed hard. Whether he called himself one or no, the man _reeked_ of knight, and Pate knew better than to trust in the tender mercy of a knight. _Best tread carefully._ “We was soldiers,” he said, trying his best to ignore how dry his mouth had become. “For Lord Roote, out of Harroway town.”

            The man nodded, set his spear back on his shoulder, which Pate felt was a good sign. Sure, Pate had a spear, too, but this man’s spear was a _proper_ spear, long and banded and tipped with a wicked-looking steel point. “Lion or fish?”

            _Fish…? Oh, right, the Tullys._ “Lord Roote is sworn to Riverrun. We were in the army what was beaten at the Golden Tooth.”

            The man’s eyes narrowed, and his face somehow became even _more_ grim. “And what, you deserted?”

            _Careful, careful…_ “No, not at all, we found Lord Vance, or, er, the _new_ Lord Vance, the old one died in the battle, but that’s not important, what is, is that the new Lord Vance gave us a few handfuls of coppers and told us to go home, what with us not being able to ride or anything.”

            The man nodded, and his grim expression softened. “Ah, that makes sense.”

            _It does? That’s news to **me.** Not a damn bit of this has made sense. _“If you say so,” was all Pate could muster.

            The man chuckled. “I do. Now, get off the road, and best not tell any lions what you’re about to see.”

            Pate frowned. “The fuck would I go talkin’ to lions for?”

            The man rolled his eyes and kicked his horse into a canter. “Just _don’t,_ alright? _And get off the bloody road!”_

            With that, he was gone, and Pate saw no reason to doubt the man, so he dragged Darrin off the road, Wat loping along behind them. 

            It wasn’t long before they were all glad that they’d listened. The host that came roaring down the track was impressive, a long column that went past in a cacophony of jangling bridles and thundering hooves and at least a dozen songs that seemed to ripple up and down the column. These men looked rather grim and determined, and they _definitely_ seemed to know their business, _no peasant levies here, it seems,_ though Pate couldn’t be sure how he knew that, _I’m probably only guessing._

            Finally, though, after what felt like an age, they were gone, leaving only the echo of their passing and the stench of the droppings their horses had left scattered on the track. Not that Pate cared. He was a peasant, after all, and was used to the smell of shit when sowing season came ‘round.

            What did bother him, though, as they stood in the middle of the track, looking back the way they had come, the way that the soldiers had just gone, was that he was even more confused than he had been before. The soldiers had looked so _strange,_ even their badges were queer, a riot of grey wolves and white starbusts and double-headed axes and what he would’ve sworn were actual fucking _giants_ breaking chains, and he would’ve sworn on the Stranger Itself that he had seen several women riding at the head of the column, highborn, too, by the look of their dresses, which was just…

            _Odd…_

In the end, though, he supposed he would never understand, so why bother? All he could do was shoulder his spear, look at his cousin and Wat ( _who he **supposed** was his friend_), shrug, and say, “Huh...I wonder what _that_ was all about?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit looks different from the bottom of the heap...
> 
> So, fun fact: This up late, not because of any crazy shenanigans or whatever, but because I literally almost forgot today was Monday. Thank Christ for my wife. My only excuse is that it was a long weekend and a hectic day. But, hey, it's up, and we're good to go.
> 
> Anyhoo, it's late, and I need to get some sleep, so I'm not gonna burden you with a long AN today. I'll throw some of what I planned to say today onto Wednesday's note. If I remember.
> 
> Speaking of Wednesday...
> 
> Moving on! In Wednesday's episode, Ned wonders if anyone will ever forgive him. Stay tuned!


	38. Eddard

IT WAS WARM IN GODSWOOD. That, more than anything else, cemented just how far from home Eddard Stark was. Godswoods weren’t _supposed_ to be warm. They were supposed to be, _at most,_ cool, refreshing, even. Light breezes were supposed to ripples through the leaves, making a sound like a thousand-thousand whispering voices. In a godswood, a _true_ godswood, one should not have imagine the gods; no, one should be able to almost _feel them._

            But the godswood deep in the heart of the Red Keep had none of those things. The air hung thick and heavy, musty with the smell of rotting leaves and tree bark abused by the sun. It was hot and humid, so that drops of sweat trickled down his back while he limped his away through another circuit around the pitiful excuse for a weirwood tree. And as for the gods…

            _The gods felt very far away…_

But at least he could _think._ He couldn’t think in his cell; it was too quiet down there, and there were too many ghosts clamoring for his attention. His only company were the servants who came every day to tidy the room, replace the rushes, and empty out the chamberpot, them and the guards looming outside the door and Varys waddling in to do... _whatever it was that the man was trying to do._ Ned had long since given up trying to understand the Master of Whisperers. It had proved a fruitless task, and the Lord of Winterfell had never been fond of beating his head against walls when there was no benefit to it.

            Once a day, though, for the past two weeks, the guards would open his door, hand him a walking stick, and escort him to the godswood. There, they would leave him, slamming yet another door and making sure he heard the key turn in the lock, leaving him alone to wander to take endless turns around the edges. At first, he had been surprised that they would leave him alone, but then he realized that they knew he had nowhere to go, so why waste their time? _No matter,_ he had decided. _At least I can finally **think.**_

_Mayhaps my ghosts will leave me alone for a while._

            It turned out that they did, which only reinforced his belief that the ghosts were not real, were mere figments of his imagination conjured up out of loneliness and despair and boredom. That didn’t stop them from coming back the moment the guards shoved him back in his cell, but it was something, at least, something to hold on to, a piece of flotsam to cling to as he tried not to drown. If anything, it made his brief visits to the phony godswood all that more precious, made the way the blood began to flow through cramped and disused legs a sheer, genuine delight to feel.

            It made him feel alive, as if there was a light at the end of the tunnel, and somehow, _someway,_ everything might just turn out alright.

            “Copper for your thoughts, my lord?”

            Ned groaned, bit down on a curse. _Of course._ He sighed, turned to face the man who had spoken to him, the man who had so far left him alone during his brief visits to the world of the living. _Leave it to Varys to ruin everything._

            He couldn’t even get angry. There didn’t seem to be a point. “Do I have a choice?” he asked, wincing at how raspy his voice had become. 

            Varys tittered, rocking back and forth and shaking with delight. “As a matter of fact, my lord, you may be one of the few people in the Seven Kingdoms who has any such thing.” Varys took a deep breath, as if to calm himself, and waved a hand. “Care to join me?”

            Ned took in the scene. Varys was sitting in front of the so-called weirwood tree just beneath the pitiful excuse for a carved face that Ned found almost blasphemous. The Master of Whisperers was perched atop a camp stool behind a rickety-looking camp table loaded down with food and a flagon of what Ned hoped was ale but knew was wine. On Ned’s side of the table was another camp stool, unoccupied, and it was this that Varys was waving at.

            Ned looked up to the sky and prayed for strength, considering all the things he could do. He could turn on his heel, march to the door, and demand to be taken back to his cell. He flip the table over, call Varys even name that he knew, and _then_ demand to go back to his cell. There was even a small, disturbingly loud part of him that wanted to, without saying a word, pick up the empty stool and slowly, carefully, beat Varys to death with it. Ned allowed himself to consider this possibility for far longer than was healthy, even listened to the little voice that whispered that, not only would no one mourn Varys, but the Lannisters might even thank Eddard for disposing of the impenetrable eunuch. 

            Alas, _it just wouldn’t do._ Varys, as usual, had been careful to come unarmed, and Ned would never kill an unarmed man, no matter the provocation. Ned had executed men, but he had never murdered one, and he wasn’t about to start.

            The knowledge made him grit his teeth. He hated, _hated,_ how skillfully his enemies had used his principles against him. It was enough to make him wonder if those principles were worth keeping.

            _No, don’t go down that road._

_You violated your principles once, and look what happened._

“Please, my lord,” Varys said, arm still outstretched towards the empty tool, “I must insist. Even if you have no desire for my company, the bread is fresh, and the wine is very good.”

            Ned looked to the flagon. “Ale would be better.”

            “No doubt,” Varys admitted, “but the only ale available in the Red Keep isn’t fit to drink, so needs must, I’m afraid. Will you sit?”

            Ned shrugged. “Why not?” He limped over to the table, let his walking stick fall to the ground, and carefully seated himself upon the stool. As he sat, Varys poured wine into two cups, passed one to Ned, and raised his own.

            “To the realm,” Varys said, “to peace.”

            Ned picked up his cup and raised it in return. “To peace with honor.”

            They drank and set their cups aside. Varys broke off a piece of bread and held it out to Ned. “Surely peace is, in and of itself, honorable?”

            Ned resisted the urge to scoff. He had never been any good at it, and he couldn’t imagine that a scoff would have any effect upon the eunuch. “You would think that.”

            One of Varys’s eyebrows popped up, _such as they were._ Ned had often found himself wondering if the eyebrows really existed, or if they were just a trick of the light. “My lord disagrees?”

            Ned grunted as he spread butter on his bread. “A peace without honor or dignity is no peace at all. Better to die on your feet than live on your knees.”

            “And yet, hundreds of thousands of smallfolk do just that, every day, even in the North.”

            “That is their lot.”

            “Quite.” 

            Ned shot the eunuch a look, quickly regretted it. There was, after all, little point in trying to parse and understand the eunuch’s tone and words and expressions. For all of his many faults, Ned had to admit that rarely had there been a man more perfectly suited for his position.

            _Unlike me…_

_Damn you, Brandon. **Damn you.** This is all your fault._

Ned frowned at the thought, pushed it away. It was unworthy of him, and besides, cursing the dead was a uniquely useless endeavor. Instead, he ate his bread, sipped his wine, and looked off to the side, at what, even he wasn’t sure.

            “I overheard some servants the other day, complaining about the price of food,” he said, as much to say something as anything else. He didn’t know why, but it was difficult to maintain his usual air of stony silence with the eunuch.

            Mayhaps it was being outside, breathing somewhat fresh air, the noise of King’s Landing a dull roar at the edge of his consciousness.

            Mayhaps he was just more bored than he had thought.

            Varys sighed, contemplated his cup. “I’m afraid you overheard truly. The riverlands are still a battlefield, Lord Stannis has galleys prowling the Blackwater Rush, and food shipments from the Reach have...how shall we say... _slowed,_ of late.”

            Ned looked back to Varys. “Has Highgarden declared against Joffrey?”

            “Not as yet,” Varys admitted, “though I can’t imagine what they could be waiting for. Mayhaps Lord Renly is balking at the Tyrells’ price.”

            Ned thought back to the dark, tension-filled days before he made his brutal, bloody blunder, remembered Renly Baratheon urging him to seize the Red Keep by force, recalled how the young man had practically _quivered_ at the thought of being King. “What could the Tyrells want that could possibly make Renly hesitate?”

            “Marriage to young Margaery Tyrell, I imagine.”

            _Ah._ “I...see…” Eddard said, unable to think of anything better. Renly’s... _inclinations,_ were the worst kept secret in the Seven Kingdoms. Ned was well aware that he could be... _obtuse,_ about such things, and even _he_ had seen the truth plain as day. _Still…_ “Mayhaps he is reconsidering betraying his brother.”

            That sent Varys into yet another of his fits of giggles. “Oh, Lord Stark, just when I think you haven’t a witty bone in your body, you make some flat-voiced jest and surprise me.”

            _Mayhaps I don’t need the stool, mayhaps I only need the walking stick...or perhaps the flagon, it seems solid enough…_ Ned pushed the image away, settled for a silent glare.

            Naturally, that just made Varys giggle more. “I apologize,” Varys said, sipping his cup and setting it aside once more, the better to pick up an apple and set to work on it. “I shouldn’t mock you. Alas, my lord, you are very easy to tease, and sometimes I can’t quite help myself.”

            _No, the stick will break. Best use the stool and be sure._ “My sister always said that.”

            “Oh?”

            “You’re not my sister.”

            Varys bowed his head. “And thus, I should not tease you as she would. Apologies, my lord; I shall endeavor to not tread on the sacred prerogatives of a dearly departed sister in the future.”

            “And I’m the King.”

            “You could’ve been.”

            Now it was Ned’s turn to laugh. Sure, it was a bitter, strangled sort of laugh, the kind of laugh that he had seen escape men’s lips when he had just sentenced them to death, but it was something, he supposed. “I would’ve been a terrible king.”

            “And that’s exactly why you would make, at the very least, a tolerable one, which is more than our last two kings could say, but I digress.” Varys took a large bite from his apple, chewed with great ostentation, swallowed. “As pleasant as small talk is with you, my lord, I’m afraid it’s time get down to business. Surely you are wondering why I’m here, alone, talking to you like this?”

            Ned shrugged, concentrating on buttering a new piece of bread. “I’ve given up trying to understand you.”

            “A wise course, my lord. I often wonder the same thing myself, but no matter. Besides whispered complaints about food prices, have you heard any other news?”

            “Only what you tell me,” Ned pointed out.

            “True...so, you haven’t heard, then.”

            _Brandon wouldn’t have hesitated,_ he thought. _Brandon would’ve beaten this smug eunuch to death ages ago and settled down to the feast while he waited for the guards._

Something cold and jagged as a shard of ice pricked at Ned’s heart.

            _And look where that kind of thinking got him…_

“Heard what?” Ned finally said, words choked out past the lump in his throat.

            “That your bastard son has married.”

            For a moment, Ned wasn’t there. For a moment, he was standing in the throne room once more, watching as the bloodied, broken bodies of Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen, the shrouds used to cover the horror they had become heartbreakingly small, were laid at Robert’s feet. For a moment, his heart was sinking once more into his boots, he felt cold and brittle, he could taste bile at the back of his throat. For a moment, he could see them all, Tywin Lannister looking calm and superior, the Kingslayer looking sick and pale, and Robert…

            _For a moment, he was there, looking up at Robert, and once more…_

_Robert was smiling…_

**_I see no babes, only dragonspawn…_ **

He was back. He had no idea how long he had been gone. It felt like both a moment and an eternity, and the blood was still roaring in his ears, but he was back, perched on a camp stool, looking into Varys’s beady little eyes.

            “How…” He stopped, put down the bread, took a gulp of wine, tried again. “How... _how did that happen?”_

            “Your wife, I’m afraid. It seems Walder Frey charged a rather exorbitant toll for the right to cross his bridge, and the Lady Stark found a way to pay it.”

            “She sold Jon.”

            Varys bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”

            Ned could have screamed. He could have torn out his hair and his beard and _screamed. All my fault, everything’s my fault, damn my soul to the deepest hell._ He could see it all, clear as day, stretching out before him, all of his mistakes, all of his missteps, _all of his lies._ He saw his eldest daughter, the daughter he had done _nothing_ to prepare for the real world, reeled in like a fish on a hook, now a hostage who didn’t know she was a hostage. He saw his eldest son, leading an army to war, and beside him the boy who was Ned’s son in all the ways that mattered, the boy who thought he was a bastard because of the lies of the man the boy called _father._ He saw all of his children, Arya and Bran and Rickon, _saw his wife,_ wished in that moment with all his heart for the ability to go back, _go back and never make that impossible promise,_ and now here he was, paying a bill that had long since become past due.

            _Damn it all…_

_Damn **me** …_

“Do you know why I’m here, Lord Stark?”

            Ned just shook his head, tears burning in his eyes. _Promise me, Ned._ It was all he could do. _Promise me._ His throat was tight, his tongue thick and heavy, _he couldn’t breathe…_

**_Don’t let them kill my boy…_ **

“I’m here to ask you a question, and I need you to be honest with me.”

            Ned just kept shaking his head. He couldn’t speak. It felt as if the earth was about to swallow him whole, _and he couldn’t wait…_

**_Ned, we need to talk._ ** _Ned was in the Great Hall of Winterfell, his father’s lords gathered around him, the army marshaling outside the walls. Benjen was standing there, shifting from foot-to-foot, soaked in sweat that smelled of fear. **Not later, Ned, now, right fucking now**…_

“Does he know?”

            Ned looked up, and hoped he wasn’t crying, hoped that the tears were nothing more than white hot pokers jammed into his eyes.

            _“What…?”_ he managed to croak out, somehow, _someway,_ the word clawing its way past the weight of years and impossible promises and _oh so many lies…_

“Does Jaehaerys know?”

            “Who?” The word popped out, unbidden, uncalled for. 

            _That’s how deep the lie is now._

_I fling it out with nary a thought._

Ned watched as, for the first time, genuine emotion came to life on Varys’s face. It rocked him to his core, the way Varys turned from his usual _impenetrable enigma,_ turned into a man who was deadly serious, _deadly earnest._

The eunuch was gone, and in his place was... _something else…_

“Don’t play games with me, Lord Stark. _Does the boy know?_ ”

            Ned shook his head, but said nothing.

            He couldn’t think of anything to say, and if he had, he wouldn’t have been able to speak it out loud.

            Varys groaned, sank down onto his stool, polished off his wine and poured himself another, drained that cup in its turn.

            “Does anyone know?”

            “Howland Reed,” Ned croaked out, he didn’t know why, he just did, the world was spiraling around him and he felt dizzy and lost _and alone…_

_I’m sorry, Cat…_

_I’m so, so sorry…_

**_Liar!_ ** _He was screaming at Benjen. **You dirty, horrid, gods-damned LIAR!** It couldn’t be true, what Benjen had just told him, but somehow, he knew it was true, so the only thing he could do was scream and rage and call his own brother a liar, while his own little brother cowered and flinched at every word._

_When I came back from the war and Benjen told me he was going to the Wall, I said only one word. **Good.** I said only one word, and turned away before I could see my little brother cry…_

Varys was waving away the name Ned had offered. “Of course Lord Reed knows, _he was there,_ I mean, _does anyone else?”_

            Ned gulped his wine, found the cup empty, poured himself some more, he hated wine, but he needed to drink something _and it was there. “Lady Reed,”_ he croaked out. “ _Mayhaps the septa who served as midwife. Lord Dayne, but he’s dead._ ”

            Varys sighed. “And any southern lord who knew Rhaegar and cares to spare the boy more than a passing look.”

            Ned could nod. He had always known that the secret would out should he ever allow Jon south of the Neck. _And now Jon is married to a Frey and riding at the head of an army next to the future Lord Stark…_

_It’s only a matter of time…_

Varys polished off his latest cup and stood, dabbing at his lips with a cloth. “Well, I’m afraid I must be off, my lord. There is much to do.”

            Ned didn’t look up; he wasn’t sure how he would handle whatever look Varys would have. “Are you going to tell anyone?”

            There was a long pause, and somehow, Ned could _feel_ the judgment. “No, my lord, I’m not. I know you don’t believe me, but I really do serve the realm, _and the realm first,_ and trust me, _nothing could be worse for the realm than Cersei Lannister in a position of power._ So, no, I’m not going to tell. I’ve known for years, so why should I tell now? Lord Tywin would have my head off just on principle if I told, and besides, _it would not serve the realm._ ”

            “How could Jon serve the realm?”

            There was another pause, even longer this time, and then Varys was patting Ned on the shoulder, and when Ned looked up, he wished he hadn’t.

            Varys angry was bad enough, _but Varys full of pity and remorse was even worse._

_It was easier when I imagined him as something other than human…_

“That, my lord, we shall have to see.” Varys gave a Ned’s shoulder a squeeze, and then walked off.

            Ned didn’t look after him when he spoke. “And you’re sure Arya is fine?”

            “As fine as she can be, my lord,” Varys called back, and then, after a period of time Ned could not have measured, a door was swinging open, and then a door was swinging closed.

            Once, when Ned was a boy, a man had been caught passing around counterfeit coins. Ned’s father had suspected the man of being part of a larger operation, so when the man maintained he was on his own, Ned’s father had ordered the man sent to the rack. Ned’s father had ordered Ned to go down into the dungeons and watch, _you must see how justice is down, son,_ and Ned, every dutiful, _ever obedient,_ had gone, and Ned had been fine, until the wheel had been turned and the man’s legs and arms had popped out of their joints with an audible _crack._

            _And then the man started screaming, and I threw up…_

Ned hadn’t thought of that day in years, but he was thinking of it now, as the door clanged shut behind the Master of Whisperers.

            Ned hadn’t the faintest idea why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's what impossible promises gets you, buddy...
> 
> Damn, didn't think I'd get this up today. It's been...it was a day, okay, guys? I had this written, but I didn't have it proofread or edited, so I was thinking, eh, post it tomorrow morning, but I don't trust my toddler to give me enough peace to post it in the morning so I decided to just throw it up. It's a damn fine chapter, though I wish I'd had the chance to polish it a bit more, but I think it's still good.
> 
> I hope you all agree.
> 
> Moving on! In Friday's episode, brotherly bonding and romantic moments abound. Stay tuned!


	39. Robb

HE HAD NEVER SEEN THE SKY LOOK SO BEAUTIFUL. It took Robb’s breath away, the glory and majesty of it, the way the setting sun painted the thin, wispy clouds a thousand shades of purple and red and gold, the way the sky itself seemed a riot of color, fading from the bright blue of day towards the flickering fire of sunset. He couldn’t see the sun, it had long since disappeared behind the trees, but he could feel it, _sense it,_ could not manage to shake the idea that he had only to climb the towering trees to reach out and _touch it,_ to watch as it sank beneath the horizon. He closed his eyes and reveled in it, and for a moment, he wasn’t a young man in the midst of making a terrifying gamble, no, he was just a little boy, capering along the battlements of Winterfell with his brother, laughing as if he had not a care in the world, relishing a summer that surely could never end.

            The sound of voices drew him back down to the world, and he turned, watched as the lords and commanders of the army, _of his army,_ spilled out of the command tent, each of them pausing to bow before they went off in their twos and threes, deep in conversation. Somehow, he knew that none of them was talking about what they were about to attempt to do. After all, what was the point? There were no more preparations to make. The march had been made, secrecy had been maintained, plans had been drawn and approved, _the die was cast._

 _It was all in the hands of the gods now._ All he could do was pray, pray that it would all work, pray that he would achieve victory, pray that he would not shame himself…

            _Pray that it was not all for naught…_

Jon and Theon were the last to leave the tent, deep in their own conversation. When they saw him, they smiled and walked towards him, fallen leaves rustling with each step as they approached. Jon, _as usual,_ looked thoughtful, pensive, even, a startling contrast to Theon, who smiled from ear-to-ear, looking as if he had not a care in the world. Robb found himself wondering how much of his friend’s carefree attitude and easy smiles were an act, a mask with which to face a world that all too often seemed uncaring and cold. Not for the first time, Robb thought about asking.

            Not for the first time, Robb decided he’d rather not know.

            “A glorious sunset,” Theon said, after they had all exchanged bracing hugs and rib bruising blows to the back. “It’s a sign. The gods are with us.”

            “Even your Drowned God?” Robb asked, for reasons he didn’t understand genuinely curious.

            Theon’s smile grew somehow brighter. “Even him! How could he not? He has little love for Lannisters, and delights in battle fought with cunning.”

            Jon frowned. “The Drowned God doesn’t frown upon trickery?”

            Theon laughed, slapped Jon on the shoulder. “On the contrary, he loves it! Victory won through intelligence and cleverness is just as glorious and delightful in his eyes as victory won shield wall against shield wall.”

            “No mercy for the Lannisters, then?” Robb said, echoing the unspoken question lurking in his brother’s eyes. 

            Theon scoffed, waving the idea away as if it were a nettlesome fly. “If they’re dumb enough to be tricked, they don’t _deserve_ mercy.”

            “We don’t know yet if they’ve been tricked,” Jon pointed out. Robb bit down on the urge to fall to his knees and thank the gods for his decision to call his brother back. As far back as Robb could remember, he and Jon had always been like this, _thick as thieves,_ their nannies had often complained, almost able to read each other’s minds. Leading an army to war didn’t feel so frightening, _didn’t feel so lonely,_ with his brother by his side.

            _Even if he spends as much time with his pretty wife as he does with me,_ Robb thought with a silent chuckle.

            Meanwhile, Theon was rolling his eyes and groaning. “Not that again. You’ve heard the scouts’ reports. If they had any inkling that we were here, we would’ve seen some kind of sign in the camps around Riverrun.”

            “Unless that’s exactly what they want us to think,” Jon pointed out.

            Theon sighed and punched Jon in the arm. “You think too much, Snow.”

            Jon punched Theon’s arm right back. “And you think too little, Greyjoy.”

            “Why should I have to think at all?” Theon replied. “After all, you brood enough for a hundred men.”

            “Though he doesn’t brood so much since the Lady Roslin joined the army,” Robb said, giving his brother a playful shove. At that, Jon blushed bright red, looking down at his feet and stammering while he tried to fight back a smile. 

            Robb and Theon had a very good laugh about _that._

            “Well,” Theon said, wiping tears from his eyes, “as fun as it is to tease lover boy here, the hour grows late, and I have a yearning for female companionship myself. You two haven’t seen Olira around, have you?”

            Jon made a face. “ _Olira?_ You’re lusting after my wife’s _handmaid?_ ”

            “Well, yeah, have you seen her?”

            “Wait,” Robb said, snapping his fingers through the air, “isn’t that the stern and sullen one? The one who always looks as if she’s about to die of boredom?”

            Theon laughed. “That’s the one!”

            “You’re trying to bed _her?_ ” Jon said, his tone somewhere between disapproval and disbelief.”

            “ _Trying?!”_ Theon replied, eyes dancing with mirth. “I’ve been bedding her for the past week! I can assure you, she’s anything but _sullen and bored_ between the sheets!”

            “Bullshit,” Jon said.

            “I’m with my brother,” Robb put in. “I don’t believe you.”

            Theon waved their objections away. “Believe what you want, it makes no difference to me. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’m off to enter myth and legend. See you in the morning.” And with that, he made his exit,leaving Jon and Robb to stand side-by-side and watch Theon saunter away as he whistled the tune to _The Dornisman’s Wife._

Jon shook his head, a bemused expression on his face that Robb did not doubt mirrored his own. “Have you ever tried to tell him that his whistling sounds like the death throes of a mangled cat?”

            “Of course I have,” Robb said. “It just made him whistle louder.”

            Jon chuckled. “It would.” Jon sighed, looked up at the sky once more. “It really is beautiful tonight. Mayhaps Theon’s right. Mayhaps it’s a sign.”

            “Aye,” Robb admitted, “but a sign for whom? Us, or the Kingslayer?”

            Jon turned away from the sunset, looked deep into Robb’s eyes, and Robb looked back, no matter how much it hurt to see the love, _the loyalty,_ that was writ plain as day upon his brother’s face. It frightened Robb, that loyalty, frightened him more than he could ever say, even to himself.

            It made him afraid that he would prove unworthy. Knowing that his brother would never, _ever_ think such a thing of him only made Robb feel even more afraid.

            _But it gives me strength, too. **When winter comes, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.**_ And Robb had a pack here. _He had his brother._ He could do anything, conquer anything, so long as he had his brother by his side.

            The fear of proving unworthy only made him more determined, at the end of the day.

            Jon clasped Robb’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze. “It’s a sign for both. An omen of victory for us, an omen of defeat and humiliation for the Kingslayer.”

            Robb swallowed, somehow forced the words past the lump in his throat. “How can you be so sure?”

            “ _Because I am._ And besides, how many times do I have to tell you? _Leave the brooding to me._ It’s your job to look good upon a horse and win the battles, and it’s my job to brood and mope in your shadow.”

            Robb took a moment to collect himself, afraid that he might burst into tears. It just... _it just felt so **good** to have his brother there. _It was times like this that Robb couldn’t quite believe that he almost hadn’t sent the message to Castle Black, all those months ago. It was times like this that he found himself wondering how it would be, to be leading this army all on his own, and it made him want to curl into a ball and _weep._

            But he didn’t, because he’d sent the message, _and now everything would be alright._

            “Well,” Robb finally said, clasping his brother’s shoulder as his brother clasped his, “someone has to keep you humble. We don’t want your wife’s starry-eyed gaze going to your head, now, do we?”

            Jon groaned and gave Robb a shove. “Oh, lay off; you’re just jealous that the only company you have in _your_ tent is Grey Wind.”

            “I don’t know, at least Grey Wind doesn’t complain about my nonexistent snores.”

            “You keep telling yourself that, your snores could wake the dead.”

            “Even if that were true, _and it isn’t,_ I don’t have to worry about it anymore, seeing as your wife’s moans more than drown them out!”

            Jon blushed bright red. “We’re not _that_ loud…”

            Robb leaned in close and whispered in his brother’s ear. “ _No, Jon, you’re **louder.**_ ” With that, Robb leaped back, snatched a handful of leaves off the ground, and threw them in his brother’s face. Several of them got caught in Jon’s hair, and for a moment, Robb’s brother looked like a bewildered king with a crown of dead leaves and at least one twig that rested precariously right on the top. That haphazard crown, combined with Jon’s stunned, outraged expression, was the single funniest thing Robb had ever seen, and he bent over as he let out peals of hysterical laughter.

            Vengeance was swift, though, as Jon grabbed _two_ handfuls of leaves and did his best to shove them down Robb’s tunic. Robb danced away, but still managed to his own crown, as he and his brother chased each other around, crying joyful tears, kicking and throwing leaves at each other, knocking each other down, picking each other up, only to start again. They were still at it when Roslin Frey came back from the holy services held every evening by the Manderlys’ septon, her arrival announced when she sprang upon them with her own handfuls of leaves, after which is was pure chaos, Roslin and Jon ganging up on Robb, Robb barely holding his own, all while Robb’s mother appeared and, after attempting to get Robb’s attention, gave up and stormed off.

            And through it all, the sun sank beneath the horizon, the stars came to life in the sky above, and the three of them laughed like children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The children of summer...
> 
> So, if you're a long time reader of mine, you might have heard about my Great Uncle Ralph. Basically, he served in the US Army in World War Two, was at Omaha Beach and the Battle of the Bulge, the whole nine yards, say a lot of combat. A lot of my information about war and soldiers and serving comes from him. When he joined up, he and a gaggle of his best friends who'd all grown up together joined up together, and a lot of them ended up in the same unit. Long story short, they were waiting to board the ship that would take them to D-Day, he and his friends are all about twenty/twenty-one, and for reasons he never could explain, they got involved in a giant game of tag. I'm not kidding, full on, running around in full gear, giggling like little kids, playing tag. My great uncle always said it was one of the best memories he ever had.
> 
> Not least because, twenty-four hours later, three of those friends, guys he'd grown up with, were dead.
> 
> Thus, long story short, that's where this chapter comes from. I wanted to get that moment of...tension release, right on the cusp of our characters saying goodbye to childhood forever. There's no turning back; the Whispering Wood is a day away. 
> 
> They aren't kids anymore, but at least they get to laugh like kids one last time. Plus, I wanted to show that Roslin is fitting in well. I honestly think she would. Growing up at the Twins, she's never been able to be part of anything even approaching a healthy family dynamic. If Walder Frey thinks she's still a Frey, he's sorely mistaken.
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, Jamie Lannister gets his breakfast ruined. Stay tuned!


	40. Jaime

“THAT,” HE SAID, DABBING AT HIS LIPS WITH A NAPKIN, “IS A RAVEN.” This, Jaime Lannister felt, was about the best that could be said about the thing before him. It was, after all, a raven, a dead raven, true, with an arrow sticking out of it, but a raven nonetheless. He could’ve pointed out that the dead raven looked like wild animals had been at it,  he could even have pointed out that there were actual, literal _maggots_ crawling around in its rotted flesh, he even considered pinching his nose and making some kind of mummer’s farce of pointing out that it smelled positively _awful,_ but he didn’t want to insult anyone’s intelligence by calling attention to what was patently obvious.

            He did briefly consider pointing out that the thing had been tossed right on top of his breakfast, but, upon further consideration, he couldn’t help but feel that such a course of action would be somewhat _churlish._ Thus, he was left with only one option: To observe, in a calm, collected tone of voice, that the thing before him was, in fact, a raven.

            He looked at the bit of egg on the end of his fork, looked back down, watched as a maggot flopped out of the dead raven and into his remaining eggs, sighed, and set the fork, complete with uneaten bit of egg, aside. They had been good eggs, delicious, even, considering the circumstances of an army in the middle of conducting a rather painful, disjointed siege, but sadly, he just wasn’t hungry anymore.

            His hunger had, _somehow,_ vanished, flying away a...like a... _well…_

_Like a raven, I suppose. Damn it, Tyrion, where are you when I need you? This calls for something... **pithy**..._

He allowed himself a smirk as he looked up at the man standing before him. “Ser Forley! Good of you to join me this morning. What can I do for you?” He had decided not to mention the raven, or, at least, _not yet._

            After all, if he was lucky, he could drag things out long enough for someone to take the damn thing away and bring him a fresh plate of food. _Who knows? Mayhaps my appetite will return._

_Stranger things have happened._

            If Ser Forley Prester noticed Jaime’s attempt to be civil, he gave no sign. The man just stood there, fists clenched, looking - _as usual_ \- like an innkeep who had just caught guests trying to sneak through a window without paying. The man took a deep breath and blew it out through his nose, making his pinched nose look even more pinched than usual, which was quite a feat, in Jaime’s opinion. “Do you know what this means?”

            Jaime frowned, not at Ser Forley, but at the maggot that had landed in his eggs, which had somehow made its way off the eggs and onto the table. Swallowing his distaste, Jaime picked the maggot up with thumb and forefinger and flicked it aside. “That you don’t know where the kitchens are?”

            He looked up, just in time to watch Ser Forley flush crimson, the color rippling from his round cheeks up across his brow to spread out across his bald pate. “Why would I need to know where the kitchens are?”

            Jaime gestured at the dead raven. “That is where one takes dead game, is it not? Or is there a custom that I’m unaware of, and this is your way of informing me of my transgression?” He sighed, pushed the plate with its dead raven away, and leaned back in his chair. “If so, I promise you that, next time I catch an aurochs, I will toss it on top of your breakfast with all due ceremony.”

            Laughter rippled through the gaggle of men Ser Forley had brought with him, laughter that was cut short when Ser Forley rounded on them with an ugly glare, the same ugly glare that the man brought back around to blaze at Jaime. “Ser Jaime, this is a very serious matter, undeserving of your... _unusual_ sense of humor.”

            Jaime took a moment to remember a few of the japes Tyrion had directed at Ser Forley’s back over the years, savoring a particularly ribald one before replying. “My apologies, Ser Forley, but it seems it must be pointed out to you that you still haven’t explained yourself.”

            Ser Forley rocked back on his heels, heedless of the grins breaking out on the faces of his men. “Ser Jaime! Surely my point should be obvious.”

            Jaime spread his hands. “And yet…”

            That earned Jaime a huff of frustration, a huff so like the sound the red bull on Ser Forley’s coat of arms would make that Jaime was surprised that Ser Forley didn’t stamp his foot and charge. “The rivermen are killing our ravens!”

            _Ah._ “And your point is…? Shooting down each other’s ravens is, last I checked, a standard practice in time of war, or have you missed the archers we have posted around Riverrun for just that purpose?” Jaime leaned forward and took another look at the dead raven. “How do you even know this is one of ours, anyways? Whatever wild animal has been at it has not seen fit to leave any mark of identification.” _Or whatever message it might have had,_ Jaime noticed, glancing at the raven’s mangled leg.

            Ser Forley made a face that did nothing to dispel the air of _angry innkeep_ that followed him wherever he went. “You think it’s one of Riverrun’s?”

            Jaime shrugged as a servant appeared and took away the ruined breakfast and the dead raven. “Thank you,” Jaime said, before turning his attention back to Ser Forley. “Could be. We’ve all heard tales of ravens that flew for miles with arrows in them.”

            “It could have been from your lord father,” Ser Forley pointed out.

            Jaime mulled this over. The man, after all, had a point. It _could_ have been from Father, or, gods forbid, it could even have been from Cersei, a thought that made Jaime’s heart fall into his boots. _Seven hells, if she’s been writing me letters this whole time, Maiden help anyone who comes within arm’s length of her._ Not that Jaime thought this likely. His sister, _his lover,_ had never been one to write letters, least of all to him. “Mayhaps it was, mayhaps it wasn’t. The point is, what would you like me to do about it?”

            “Write to Lord Tywin, of course.”

            Jaime rolled his eyes. “About what? _Father, I haven’t heard from you, I’m scared!_ Shall I warn him about the monster under my cot while I’m at it?”

            “There might have been developments. We still don’t know what the North is up to, or the Vale. What if the Reach has declared against us?”

            Jaime waved the suggestions away. “And what if they have? All of those hypothetical enemies would march for my father, and I’m sure he can handle himself.” Jaime sighed, even heavier this time, and pinched his nose. _As if the boredom of a siege wasn’t bad enough, now I have to deal with **this?** Seven hells… _“I’m being quite serious here, Ser Forley. What would you have me do? Abandon the siege on the off chance that, what...little Robb Stark could outsmart Tywin Lannister? Is _that_ what you want me to write to my father? Because, if that’s the case, by all means, write the damn letter yourself and leave me out of it.”

            _That,_ Jaime was pleased to see, took the wind right out of Ser Forley’s sails. The man had little respect for Jaime, which Jaime didn’t particularly mind, _after all, who does, I’m the **Kingslayer,** am I not, _but, like any western lord with half a brain, Ser Forley was _terrified_ of his liege lord.

            It made Jaime thankful that he would be spared from following his father’s act. _But who will, then?_ a voice that sounded suspiciously like his father’s asked, deep in the darkest corners of Jaime’s mind. 

 _Tyrion, of course,_ Jaime replied, just as he always did. Within his mind as much as without, his brother’s name was the surest method of shutting his father up. 

            _Who knows? Maybe one day, my inner father will actually **listen.** Gods know my actual father never will. He’ll live forever if that’s what it takes to keep Tyrion away from-_

“Ser Jaime! Ser Jaime!”

            Jaime gladly abandoned the train of thought, shoving himself up from the table and turning to see none other than his weak chinned cousin, Ser Cleos Frey, running towards him, red faced and puffing. When Cleos reached Jaime, he skidded to a stop and doubled over, gasping for breath with what Jaime felt were rather unnecessary theatrics. 

            After a suitable pause, Jaime reached out and pulled his cousin upright. “Well, cuz? It must be important to spur you to such heights of physical activity, so out with it, don’t keep us in suspense.”

            Every man within ear shot chuckled, even Ser Forley, though, _as usual,_ the barb sailed right over Cleos’s head. “ _Report...from...apologies, Ser Jaime, but…_ ”

            “Take a deep breath, calm yourself, and spit it out, cuz.”

            Ser Cleos did just that, not that it seemed to help much. _Still, I tried. Aunt Genna would take it ill if I let her useless son drop dead of apoplexy in the middle of my camp._ “ _Apologies, Ser Jaime-”_

“Yes, you already said that.”

            “ _Apologies, it’s just...report, from Ser Garth,_ ” a name Jaime had to wrack his memory for, before remembering that Ser Garth Greenfield was in command of the northern outriders for the week, “ _but...large force of rivermen, two-or-three-hundred, just raided...one of our foraging parties…”_

“I knew it!” Ser Forley cried, but Jaime barely heard him over the thundering roar of one word.

            _Finally!_

            “That’s more like it!” Jaime cried, grinning from ear-to-ear as he punched a hand into a palm. “Are they running for it?”

            Cleos shook his head. “ _Ser Garth said...he said...he didn’t think...so…”_

 _And who cares if they are? Finally, some action!_ “Good enough for me! _Willem!”_ His cousin Willem Lannister, his squire, appeared as if conjured from thin air, looking as eager as a puppy learning new tricks. “Get my armor ready, young man! It’s time to teach the new Lord Vance a lesson in manners!”

            Cersei had once asked him if there was anything better than coupling with her. He may have been the stupidest Lannister, but he was smart enough to recognize a trap when he saw it, so he had answered, _No, of course not._ That had been a lie. _This_ was the best thing in the world, standing tall, arms spread, as a squire dressed you and your destrier snorted and stamped at the ground outside the tent. _This_ was the best thing, _action, movement, **striking,**_ finally ending weeks, nay, _months,_ of abject boredom, of staring at walls and listening to the cacophony of hammers and saws and men cursing siege towers and ladders and rams and catapults into existence. _This_ was the best thing in the world, to mount a war horse and draw your sword, to stand tall in your saddle and hold your sword at just the right angle to catch the sun and send light rippling along the blade like the finger of the gods.

            “ _Come on, men! Let’s show these river trash who rules the world!”_

The men roared their approval, even his weak-chinned cousin Ser Cleos, and Jaime felt taller than the Mountain and twice as strong, his heart full and his mind clear of doubts.

            _But what about the raven?_ his Inner Tyrion whispered.

            _What about it?_

_Mayhaps the Young Wolf is really out there._

_Good. Let the whelp come._

            With that, he kicked his heels into his horse, and they were off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I mean, he is kind of the stupidest Lannister...
> 
> So, here we are, on the cusp of the Battle of the Whispering Wood. I remember, back during the airing of Season One of GoT, that a lot of people complained that the whole battle took place off-screen. Now, at the time, the show was being made on a bit of a shoestring budget, so it made sense to have all the battles happen just out of frame, but if you read the books, you'd know that the battle took place just off screen there, too. Well, that won't be happening here. A lot of the...ripples, set off by pulling Jon off the Wall, are about to crash down upon us. This battle is going to be a real turning point for the narrative going forward, and a lot is going to happen. So, if it seems like I'm drawing things out to build up unnecessary suspense, yeah, you caught me. A writer's gotta make his own fun, you know?
> 
> Also, it was kind of fun to pop into the mind of Jaime Lannister before he begins his redemption arc, you know? Because we're going to have an actual redemption arc, you hear that, show?! Though, to be perfectly honest, I feel like the show ended up getting a bad rap for continuing some of the books' flaws. Like, why is Jon at the Wall? A lot of you have pointed out that it's kind of the worst possible place for him to be. Like, Ned is trying to protect the kid, and thus packs him off to a den of cut throats and ruffians that also happens to be just lousy with Targaryen loyalists? Like, come on, Ned.
> 
> It's almost like GRRM didn't plan the books out as well as he likes to pretend...
> 
> Moving on! In Wednesday's episode, Roose Bolton reflects on the aftermath of the Green Fork. Stay tuned!


	41. The Flayed Man

LOCKE’S DAY HAD BEEN SOMETHING OF A MIXED BAG. On the one hand, he had been on the losing side of a battle. He’d never been on the losing side of a battle before, and he had found it... _unpleasant._ The battle itself had been about what he’d expected, just a big, blown-up version of the kinds of small, petty squabbles lords were prone to, thousands of men crashing together instead of, say, a few dozen to each side. And sure, there had been the blood and the gore and the screaming, but Locke didn’t give a shit about any of that, Lord Bolton had never been known for taking squeamish men into his service. No, what galled was that his side had _lost,_ and that was messy and frustrating and _annoying, **especially**_ since they had lost to a pack of poncy southerners.

            On the other hand, he’d gotten to kill a lord, so not a complete wash, all things considered.

            _And speaking of that little detail…_

He steeled himself, straightened his back, and stepped into the command tent. The guards, each of whom had screaming flayed men on their surcoats, screaming flayed men that matched his own, did not stop him, didn’t so much as acknowledge him as he lifted the flap and went in. 

            He found Lord Bolton about how he expected to, laid back on a cot, stripped naked, leeches sucking at his flesh. Locke had always struggled to square Lord Bolton’s leeches with Lord Bolton himself. Lord Bolton, so far as Locke had ever seen, was the most level-headed, rational man Locke had ever known. _And yet, he goes in for some old wive’s tale of balancing humors or whatnot._ Locke couldn’t make sense of such flashes of... _something else, something rather Ramsay-like_ within the hard, cold Roose Bolton, so, as usual, he pushed them aside and ignored them.

            _At least Ramsay won’t inherit. Gods forbid **that** should ever happen. _It wasn’t that Locke was squeamish or sentimental. After all, had he not stood guard, stone-faced, while Lord Bolton had raped Ramsay’s mother? He could - _mostly_ \- understand Lord Bolton. He could understand hard and cold and occasionally cruel.

            _Ramsay Snow, though, was...another thing entirely…_

The moment Lord Bolton saw Locke, Lord Bolton snapped his fingers. Without another word, all the attendants vanished, followed shortly by grumbling captains and minor lordlings. Fortunately, the Young Wolf had taken most of the proper lords with him to Riverrun, elsewise there might have been someone high enough to object to such a brusque dismissal.

            _And the only proper lord who came with this army isn’t in a position to object to much of anything…_

            Locke allowed himself to drift back, to remember finding Lord Hornwood sitting on the grass, bleeding from a spear to the gut, remembered telling the lord’s man to go fetch a horse, _I’ll look after him,_ remembered drawing his knife and finishing the job, _just as Lord Bolton commanded._ It was enough to bring a smile to his face.

            _Sad about Lord Hornwood’s squire, though. Shame the boy started babbling questions._ Locke bit down on a frustrated sigh. _Should’ve just listened and shut up, but what can you do? Youth are nothing if not foolish._

As soon as the tent was clear, Lord Bolton fixed Locke with his signature icy stare, his eyes more like chips of ice than Locke had ever seen them. “So, is it done?”

            Locke nodded. “Aye, m’lord, it’s done. Had to kill the damned squire, though.”

            Lord Bolton flicked his hand as if he was swatting at a fly. “The important thing is that it’s done. So long as it gets blamed on the Lannisters, I won’t turn a hair over it.”

            Locke did his best to ignore the implied threat. _And if it isn’t blamed on the Lannisters,_ the unspoken words snarled, _then I’ll have to remove your head myself. Shame._ It was a threat that was easy to ignore. Locke had been with Lord Bolton long enough to know that the man did not tolerate failure.

            Lord Bolton lapsed into silence, and Locke, used to such silences, stood his ground and waited, doing his best to ignore the strange, inhumane squishing noises the leeches made.

            “Shame about the battle,” Lord Bolton finally said, as if there had been no pause, as if there weren’t a dozen leeches feasting on his blood. Not for the first time, Locke found himself wondering how the things didn’t curl up and die as they ingested whatever flowed through the Lord of the Dreadfort’s veins. “Should’ve known better than to try to put one over on Tywin Lannister.”

            Locke shrugged. “It had a fifty-fifty chance of working, m’lord.” To be fair, Locke had doubted the strategy from the start. The night march had had the chance of catching the Lannisters off guard, but it had also left the possibility that the army would be too tired to well and truly fight. The whole thing had smacked of Lord Bolton trying to match the Young Wolf’s cleverness. “At least we did what we was sent for.”

            “Aye,” Lord Bolton admitted, closing his eyes, “it did. Now we’re in the hands of the _Young Wolf._ Let us hope the boy caught none of Lord Stark’s honorbound idiocy; we will desperately need a good negotiating position going forward.”

            Locke didn’t question what Lord Bolton meant. He never had, and he didn’t see any reason to start now. _He’ll tell me when I need to know, and not a moment before._ ‘Aye, m’lord.”

            Lord Bolton sighed. “Aye...and let us hope that Ramsay is smart enough to take advantage of the situation, providing your... _friend,_ does what we sent him to do.”

            Locke shrugged. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll kill the man himself.” _Failure is not an option with Lord Bolton, after all._ “Then I’ll finish the job.”

            Lord Bolton shook his head. “No, you won’t; we can’t have you lurking around _two_ dead Hornwoods. Someone is like to notice.”

            “As you say, m’lord.”

            Another pause came. Locke waited, letting the noise of the camp fade into the background. It helped that the camp itself was somewhat sullen and subdued. _Defeat will do that._ It would’ve been better if they knew how the Stark boy’s own battle had gone, but they didn’t, so the army could only sigh and huff and curse and make camp, hoping that the Lannisters wouldn’t make a strong pursuit. _And why should they? By now, Lord Tywin has found out that Ned Stark’s boys weren’t here, and he’ll be wondering **why.** It would be enough to make any man cautious._

“Any further word from the Twins?”

            “No, m’lord,” Locke answered, speaking, as Lord Bolton had, like there had been no pause, no battle, _no defeat._ “Just what I told you when I came back.”

            “Good. Wait another week, then send a man you trust to the Twins and tell Lord Frey that I may not be able to follow through after all, considering the outcome of the battle.”

            Locke allowed himself a thin smile. _Aye, that’s good._ Lord Frey had balked when Locke had told him that Lord Bolton would be _happy_ take a Frey to wife, provided Lord Frey provided her weight in gold as dowry. “You’ll be wanting the fat one, then?”

            Lord Bolton shrugged, a tiny movement, almost imperceptible. “In time, if it becomes necessary.”

            “Sure you won’t be wanting me to take the message?”

            Lord Bolton’s mouth quivered, the thin line making the slightest movement downward. “Not for a while. You shouldn’t have let the bastard’s wife see you on her way out.”

            _Aye, that was stupid._ “I don’t think she noticed me, m’lord.”

            “Probably not, but best not to take any chances. I’ll send you when the matter comes closer to fruition, but not before.” A pause. “Why you think Lord Frey took Lady Stark’s offer?”

            Locke shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he? Better a bastard now than the heir never.”

            “Aye, true... _if he had given the bastard anyone other than Lady Roslin._ He’s been saving Lady Roslin, holding her back to throw at Edmure Tully. Why give her away now? And more importantly, why tell you all of that, knowing that you would tell me?”

            Locke gave another shrug. “No clue, m’lord.”

            Lord Bolton nodded, a tiny thing, his eyes still closed. “Lord Walder knows something, knows something that the rest of us don’t.”

            Locke had no idea what to say to _that,_ so he settled for, “If you say so, m’lord.”

            Lord Bolton grunted. “Indeed. I don’t like the way Lord Umber was sniffing around Lord Stark’s bastard, either, now that I think on it.”

            “That’s Umbers for you. Who knows why Umbers do anything, m’lord.”

            “Don’t underestimate them; they aren’t without their own form of cunning, the Greatjon more than most. Hmm…this will require some thought, this, and many other things.”

            “Naturally, m’lord.”

            Lord Bolton scoffed, or as close as he ever did to something so recognizably human. “Remembering that I don’t pay you to think, Locke?”

            Locke flashed a grin he knew Lord Bolton could not see, a grin he knew Lord Bolton would somehow sense. “Aye, m’lord.”

            Lord Bolton made a sound somewhat akin to chuckling. “ _Aye..._ that will be all, Locke. Send in my attendant when you leave, the leeches need changing.”

            Locke bowed. “Aye, m’lord.”

            “And after that, go find Lady Barbrey’s man and send him to me.”

            Locked bowed once more. “Aye, m’lord. Shall I tell him anything?”

            “Just tell him that I need to speak to him.” With that, Lord Bolton flicked his wrist, and Locke knew that the interview was at an end. He bowed a third and final time, left the tent, told the attendant to go in, and sighed.

            Lords never had made much sense to Locke, Lord Bolton least of all, but it wasn’t his problem. Lords would play their games, and men like him would do the dirty work. It was the way of the world, and, as he was always telling his son, there was no point in questioning it.

            _So long as that evil fuck Ramsay doesn’t inherit._ If that happened, Locke would have to rethink his place in the grand scheme of things.

            Until then, Lord Bolton wanted Lady Barbrey’s man, the commander of the Dustin contingent, and Lady Barbrey’s man Lord Bolton would get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never trust a Bolton...
> 
> Alright, guys, my newborn is teething and my toddler picked up a nasty little cold at preschool so I'm basically doing a drive-by posting here. I actually had a lot I wanted to say and ramble on about, but like I said, drive-by posting. Just going to say that Locke is actually a character from the show. He was the creepy dude with the douchey goatee who chopped off Jaime's hand and tried to kill Jon when Jon went to put down the mutineers at Craster's Keep. Roose Bolton is the kind of guy to keep that type of amoral bagman on the payroll, and I did say way back that I would be using the books mostly, but stealing from the show whenever something caught my fancy, so this is an example of that. 
> 
> Also, I can't be the only person who thought that Lord Hornwood's death was awfully convenient. Fingers crossed for Daryn. Mostly, though, this kind of thing fits my image of Roose at this point. He's not plotting to overthrow or betray Robb, but he's definitely looking for ways for House Bolton to come out of this war a bit richer and more powerful than before.
> 
> Moving on! In Friday's episode (barring any further illness at my house), Roslin really thought she was ready for this. Stay tuned!


	42. Roslin

SHE SHOULD HAVE BEEN READY FOR THIS. After all, she had been carefully groomed and prepared for it all her life. She had been born Roslin Frey, daughter of the Lord of the Crossing, and though the Freys were not the most venerable of houses, they were still a noble house, which made her a noble lady. One day, she would marry a man of her father’s choosing, a highborn boy, heir to a lord, mayhaps, or Edmure Tully himself, if her lord father got his way. Father hadn’t gotten his way, but she’d still married a scion of a noble house, a scion born on the wrong side of the sheets, sure, but a highborn lad all the same, and the primary purpose of highborn lads, their main reason for existing, was _war_. This, she had always known, had steeled herself for. After all, what were all the songs for, the songs of brave knights breathing the names of their lady loves as they lay dying on the field of battle after some great and noble feat of arms, if not to prepare girls just like her for a day just like this?

            _Just like this…_

And yet, here she was, walking through an army camp exploding with activity, her head held high, chin out, shoulders back, the perfect picture of nobility…

            _And she wasn’t ready…_

Marriage had been...it had been _fun._ Pleasant. _Enjoyable._ Roslin had a handsome husband who was kind and sweet and gentle and looked quite ravishing without a shirt and she wasn’t ready for it to end. She had never expected to like being married, but now she did and she didn’t want to be a widow, didn’t want to go back to the Twins, _didn’t want to find out what her father would find for her next time…_

_I’ll go become a septa, a silent sister, whatever it takes, but I won’t go back **there** …_

_I’m not ready…_

She found her husband where she expected to find him, standing in front of his brother’s tent, the two of them with their arms out as their squires strapped on armor and prepared them for war. The Greyjoy boy was there, too, already dressed, lounging on a tree stump in that way of his, exuding a casualness that was almost obscene, _or maybe it just seems that way because I’m so terribly frightened._ He had his sword on his knees, and he was sharpening it with a whetstone, trading japes with Lord Rober- _Robb, **Robb,** he’s your brother-in-law call him **Robb,** he’s asked you to often enough. _

            She stopped, some instinct telling her that if she took another step, her brother Olyvar would notice her approach and call out to her and she didn’t want anyone to notice her yet. Her husband had his back to her, and she didn’t want him to turn around, she didn’t know if she could bear it. She’d seen him in his armor before, she’d watched him sparring with the other young lords and lordlings, but she didn’t want to see him in his armor now. It had all seemed so... _so fun,_ before, _so dashing, **so exciting,**_ but now it just felt…

            _It just felt…_

She gave herself a violent shake, breathed in, breathed out. _No, Roslin, don’t go there. Everything’s going to be fine._

_He’s going to come back. He’s going to win and cover himself in glory and you’re going to be so proud and everything’s going to be fine…_

_What about all the boys he’s going to have to kill to come back?_ a voice whispered in the back of her mind, a voice that sounded like her mother’s.

            She could almost _feel_ her heart harden. _Bugger them; they’re not my husband._

“They look very handsome, don’t they?”

            Roslin just about jumped out of her skin at the sound of Lady Stark’s voice, her heart leaping up into her throat. Said heart had been in her boots all morning, so the sudden shift left her dizzy and light-headed for a moment, an embarrassment she covered by rounding on Olira and Marielyn, who had followed her from her and Jon’s tent after they had helped her dress in her finest. They both looked as surprised by Lady Stark’s arrival as she felt, which was gratifying, but also annoying.

            _It’s hard enough to maintain my composure right now, I don’t need any surprises throwing me off…_

Roslin took a few moments to gather her thoughts, _to rein in her emotions,_ before giving Lady Stark a curtsey. “My lady?”

            Lady Stark was gazing upon her son, an expression on her face that Roslin both understood and... _didn’t. Will I look that someday, when I watch my son go off to war?_

_How does it feel, to see the little boy whose scraped knee you once kissed strap on sword and armor and go off to kill other mothers’ little boys?_

Roslin wasn’t sure she wanted to know, so she didn’t ask.

            _How could I ever have thought I was ready for **this**?_

Lady Stark was turning, her mouth twisted in something akin to a smile. “I was just commenting that my son and your husband look very... _dashing,_ in their armor. Almost like real soldiers.”

            “Jon _is_ a real soldier,” Roslin snapped, why, she didn’t know, _it just popped out._ “Jon is a _knight_.”

            Lady Stark’s expression didn’t change, but something... _shifted,_ in her eyes.

            Something... _became a little less cold…_

_Or mayhaps I’m just deceiving myself._

_Mayhaps I’m just a little girl at heart, a little girl who misses her mother…_

“You’ve become very fond of my husband’s...of _Jon,_ haven’t you?”

            Roslin blushed, and hated it. She had come here to do her duty, to give her husband her blessing, _to get what may be a final kiss,_ she didn’t want to be blushing like a maid. _I’m a maid no longer, talking to a woman who has had five children. Blushing is a stupid thing to do._

_Stupid…_

“I have, my lady,” she said. “He’s very kind.”

            Lady Stark sighed. “Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Lady Stark turned away, and for a moment, she looked almost…

            _Sad…_

Roslin didn’t understand that. She didn’t understand anything right now, Lady Stark most of all. It was all so... _confusing…_

_I wasn’t ready…_

_I was a fool to think I was…_

“Robb!” Lady Stark said, striding forward, shaking her head and wagging her finger. “You’ve traded enough dirty jokes with Theon and...and... _and your brother,_ I need to speak to you and the Lady Roslin needs to bless her... _her husband._ So, break it up!”

            And just like that, Jon was turning and he saw her and his face broke into one of his silly grins and Roslin felt weak at the knees but she didn’t fall, didn’t faint, she had to be _strong_ , she had to be _proud_.

            _She had to believe in him._

            Jon spread his arms and she didn’t hurl herself into them, as much as she wanted to, she walked forward, calm, steady, embraced him as was proper, _even if she did give a little squeeze to let him know that her thoughts weren’t **entirely** proper, _and she stood back and prayed that there weren’t tears in her eyes as she looked up into her husband’s face.

            Up above, the clouds shifted, and a shaft of light skidded across Jon’s face, and for a moment, his dark grey eyes looked almost purple.

            _How strange the tricks the gods play with the sun,_ she thought, as she squeezed her husband’s arms and desperately tried to remember the words of the blessing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go...
> 
> Another drive-by posting today. My son got over his cold, and, sure enough, gave it to me, so I've spent most of today trying not to literally hack up a lung. 
> 
> It's been fun, you know?
> 
> It helps that there's really nothing to add to this. I will take a moment to defend my love with brute force foreshadowing, on the grounds that GRRM seems to be a fan of brute force foreshadowing, too. I mean, come on, who the fuck does he think he's fulling in Dance with Dragons? Aegon/Young Griff is obviously a Blackfyre, the proverbial mummer's dragon, and R+L=J. Come on, dude. He needs to stop thinking he's cleverer than he actually is and just come out with it.
> 
> Also, real quick, one of you asked if Jon's romantic arc was over. To that, I say, Wait and see...
> 
> Wait and see...
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, Robb throws the dice. Stay tuned!


	43. Robb

HE LOOKED OUT UPON THE VALLEY AND TRIED TO BREATHE.

            It really was a beautiful place. The shoulders of the valley sloped gently up and away from a rocky stream, all of it covered in towering trees that bent and swayed in the soft breeze. Snow shrikes fluttered here and there, their high, sharp trills somehow managing to pierce through the cacophony of huffing horses and muttering men, fighting a strange, almost inspiring battle against the jangle of bridles and the clink of mail. Somewhere, a man coughed, and somewhere else, another man sneezed. His mind wandered at the sound, why, he didn’t know, but it wandered, flying all the way back to Winterfell. He was a little boy again, scratching notes onto foolscrap, Maester Luwin explaining that as long as men had bothered to notice such things, it had been observed that many people experienced strange ailments at different points in the year, sneezes and coughs and runny noses. _Mostly, it is only an annoyance,_ Maester Luwin had explained, _but for some men, the symptoms can be severe, even life threatening if not cared for._ Jon had asked why, and Maester Luwin had admitted that, while there were many theories, no one really knew.

            Robb grimaced. _Why am I thinking about that? Of all the silly, absurd things to think about at a time like this, why would I think about **that?**_ He wondered if Maester Luwin would know.

            Somehow, he suspected the old man wouldn’t. _No one knows everything,_ Maester Luwin had often said. _No one **can** know everything. _

            Robb felt his grimace turn into a thin, almost painful smile. _Arya hadn’t liked that. Arya never did like being told she couldn’t do something._

The smile died, and something cold and sharp bloomed deep in his chest.

            _Arya **doesn’t** like being told she **can’t** do something. She’s alive, she’s **fine,** and when this is all over, we’ll all have a laugh about how much we fretted about each other._

The thing in his chest grew colder, sharper, _harder._

_When this is all over…_

A hand clapped onto his right shoulder, and Robb almost yelped in surprise. He didn’t. _He couldn’t._ Between the Northern horse, the Freys, and the river lords they had gathered over the past few weeks, there were upwards of six-to-seven-thousand fully armed and armored men carefully placed around the valley, and it felt like every single one of them was looking at him, even those who weren’t under his immediate command. Six-to-seven-thousand pairs of eyes, boring into his back, every moment of every day, looking for the slightest sign of weakness, _waiting to see if he was made of the true steel._

_Them and me, both…_

He drove away the thoughts, they wouldn’t serve, _so he gathered them up and tossed them aside,_ and turned to the man at his right, did his best to look nonchalant and relaxed. “What can I do for you, Jon?”

            His brother smiled, gave his shoulder a squeeze before letting go. “You looked like you were going somewhere dark, Robb, thought I’d pull you out of it.”

            Robb shrugged, reached out and gave his brother his own squeeze of the shoulder. “Nothing dark, just fretting about the girls.”

            “Not worried about the battle, my lord?” asked Daryn Hornwood from Jon’s right, leaning forward in his saddle to look at Robb.

            Robb scoffed. “ _Battle?_ You must be mistaken, Daryn; last I checked, no one’s ever called a _righteous ass kicking_ a _battle!_ ”

            “For it to be called a battle,” Eddard Karstark called from Robb’s left, “the other side has to have a shot at winning!”

            “And gods know they haven’t a snowball’s chance in Dorne at _that!_ ” Robb finished, before throwing his head back and laughing. Everyone in earshot joined in, even the Freys, for all that their senior captains had expressed doubts about the battle plan just that morning ( _hence why Robb was keeping them close_ ). It felt good to laugh, to feel a little bit of the tension shudder and release, like a spasming muscle unclenching in a hot bath.

            Every bit of that released tension poured onto Robb’s shoulders, but he could take it.

            _He had to take it._ He may have only been eight-and-ten, _but he didn’t have a choice._

Just then, Theon came cantering up the slope, deftly threading his horse around and through the trees, grinning from ear-to-ear as if he hadn’t a care in the world. When he arrived, he tossed a folded up Myrish spy glass to Jon, who in tossed it to Ser Wendel Manderly, who caught it with a deftness that didn’t match his girth. Robb turned away from the tossing and cocked his head at Theon. “Well, Greyjoy?”

            Theon cantered through between Robb and Eddard Karstark, taking position just behind Robb. “Well, _Stark,_ they’re coming. The rivermen are still flying Ser Brynden’s banner, so it looks like your great uncle is still alive and well.”

            From behind them, Ser Wendel chuckled. “It’ll take more than the bloody Kingslayer to take down the Blackfish,” a comment greeted by a chorus of soft cheers and _hear hears_ , 

            Robb joined the laughter, before turning back to Theon. “And speaking of the Kingslayer…”

            Theon’s grin grew even wider. “Why do you think I’m in such a good mood? There are at least a thousand southern horse thundering away on the Blackfish’s trail. I couldn’t make out the Kingslayer himself, but I could see the damned kingsguard banner flying beside the Lannister lion.”

            That sent a torrent of curses and growls through the men. Even Black Walder seemed offended, muttering, “The bloody cheek on the man…”

            Robb looked to his brother, who shrugged, as if to say, _Well, if you’ve offended Black Walder of all people, you’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere._ Robb chuckled, nodded, gave Jon a soft punch to the arm. “Too right, Jon, too right.” They laughed together, the first genuine laugh Robb had felt in _hours,_ as Robb leaned forward to look around Jon. “Daryn? Is it true that you and my Karstark friends are to be related soon?”

            “Aye, my lord,” Daryn Hornwood replied. “I’m to marry the Lady Alys once we’re finished with putting the southerners back in their place.”

            “And right happy we’ll be to have him,” Torrhen Karstark said.

            “Well,” Robb said, leaning back in his saddle, trying to ignore the rumble of hundreds of hoofbeats that were beginning to shake the valley, “even more reason to keep as many of you alive as possible. That goes double for you, Jon.”

            Jon turned on him, frowning. “Why me?”

            “The Lady Roslin would take it ill if I let anything happen to you,” Robb pointed out.

            “And the Lady Stark would take it even worse if I let anything happen to _you,”_ Jon shot back.

            “She’d have all our hides!” Ser Wendel laughed.

            They all laughed again, and Robb opened his mouth to make what he hoped would be a pithy reply.

            He never got the chance. Just then, a horn blew, first one, then a chorus of them, deep and loud, from the eastern end of the valley.

            Robb’s heart fell, right down into his boots, shooting straight through his suddenly quivering bowels. _That’ll be the Mormonts. The Lannister horse is fully in the valley._

_Time to go._

The direwolves didn’t wait for an order, just shot off down the slope, Grey Wind in the lead, Ghost at his heels.

            “You know, Jon,” Robb said, drawing his sword, the sound immediately drowned out by a least a thousand other blades hissing from their scabbards, “just because you’re always following me around, doesn’t mean that your direwolf has to follow Grey Wind.”

            He turned, just in time to see Jon smile and shrug. “It’s only right, Robb. Where you go, I go, to the bitter end. Why not our direwolves, too?”

            Robb smiled, but didn’t speak, he was too afraid of crying, so instead he raised his sword high in the air, imagining the way the moonlight must be rippling along thousands of other drawn and raised swords and spears and axes, and drew in the deepest breath of his life. 

            _“FOR WINTERFELL! WINTERFELL AND THE NORTH!”_

 _“WINTERFELL AND THE NORTH!”_ his men roared back, Jon’s voice louder than them all, somehow.

            Robb lowered his sword and kicked his heels into his horse.

            They charged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go...
> 
> This one really speaks for itself, so I'm not going to ramble on about it much. Instead, I'm going to do some housekeeping.
> 
> First off, thanks for all of your well wishes, guys. Last week was a bit rough, and I really appreciated it. Fortunately, everyone's through their colds, though my son and I aren't yet done hacking up the last of all the mucus we swallowed. Ain't season change grand? I mean, not that you'd know the seasons had changed; it's still in the upper nineties every damn day here in Texas. Fucking climate change...
> 
> Two, to the dude who referred to Roslin as a "*** Frey bitch," I've about had it with all the misogynistic language that seems to get hurled around in the comments whenever Roslin, Sansa, or Catelyn have a moment in the limelight. You don't like certain characters who happen to be women? Fine, but cool it with the "bitches," okay, guys? We're all here to have fun, so, you know, chill.
> 
> Third and finally, I've finally come up with a game plan for the rest of this saga. We are, indeed, going to be breaking this up into pieces, and there's going to be a few time skips, but more on that later in the week.
> 
> Speaking of which...
> 
> Moving on! In Wednesday's episode, Jaime Lannister realizes that he done fucked up. Stay tuned!


	44. Jaime

THIS, _THIS,_ WAS LIVING.

            Jaime drew his sword, ordered the charge, and laughed, his senses enveloped by the roar of a thousand voices, the thunder of the horses, the ringing clarion call of the trumpets. He hadn’t slept in going on three days, but he wasn’t tired. He had spent most of those three days in the saddle, fully armored, but he wasn’t sore. He had eaten nothing more than hardtack and strips of over salted meat, but he wasn’t hungry. How could he be? _This_ was what he was made for, _this_ was what he was born for. Let Tyrion have his books and Father have his power and Cersei have her plots and her schemes and Eddard Stark his precious honor, so long as he had _this,_ a warhorse between his legs, a sword in his hand, the sun glimmering off his armor, hurling himself into battle. Everything else in his life had been a travesty, _a farce,_ his love for his sister had given him only the pain of beautiful children he could not hold, his love for duty and honor and chivalry had curdled like rotten milk in his mouth as he stood at a door and listened to a so-called _king_ gone madder than any feral hound make his wife scream in pain, even his love for his brother had given him naught but a terrible secret that tore at his soul every time he dared to look himself in a mirror, but so long as he still had _this,_ he could survive.

            So long as he still had war, _still had battle,_ still had the chance to try himself against the swords and spears and arrows of other men and come out victorious, could still prove that, for all that the Seven Kingdoms spat on his name, _he was still the greatest warrior of the age,_ he could live with himself. Let Barristan Selmy have his dignity and the Knight of Flowers have his tourney victories and Prince Rhaegar have his shallow grave and his prophecies, all would be well, so long as he had _this._

            Jaime, still laughing, still smiling, _still exulting,_ turned to his left, laughed even harder as he watched his cousin Ser Cleos cling desperately to his horse. “And you wanted to stop at nightfall, cousin!”

            Ser Cleos did not reply, just buried his face deeper into the mane of his horse and whimpered. Jaime felt no anger, no derision. Let lesser men cower in fear and self-loathing, that was not his way. He was different, _he was better,_ he was _Jaime Fucking Lannister,_ and let any man call him _Kingslayer **now**. _Instead, Jaime turned to his right, to where Lord Regenard Estren rode, tall and proud in his saddle, sword drawn, the light of the moon up above making the man’s armor sparkle. For a moment, Jaime regretted not wearing his kingsguard armor, _the white enamel would look marvelous in the moonlight,_ but it was spilt milk, as the old wives said, so he pushed the thought aside and made a note to remember it next time. _Mayhaps I shall wear it when I lead the assault on Riverrun in a few weeks’ time._

_Wouldn’t want the archers on the walls to forget me, now would we?_

“You were skeptical about continuing the pursuit as well, Lord Estren, if I remember correctly,” he shouted above the roar of the men and the blaring of the trumpets.

            Lord Estren bowed his head, the red eagle atop his helm dipping in salute. “Consider me corrected, Ser Jaime! The river lords will think twice about raiding our outposts after _this_ walloping!”

            Jaime threw back his head and laughed, the hardest and clearest and _most joyful_ laugh yet. “They better! Remember, though: Ser Brynden is _mine!_ ”

            That earned him another dip of a red eagle. “Of course, Ser Jaime!”

            Jaime turned back, gave the enemy they were chasing one last look. They were turning, _they know, they know they’re cornered,_ Jaime was still astonished that the Blackfish had let himself be cornered like this, trapped in a valley whose only easy escape for horse was blocked by Jaime’s fifteen-hundred men, _but no matter._ Jaime had ridden the Blackfish down, and now he was poised to _beat him,_ and it was Jaime’s proudest moment. He would not kill the Blackfish, of course, oh no, he would merely disarm the hoary old knight and take him captive, would take the old man back to camp, would feast him and honor him, and the only ransom Jaime would ask for would be stories of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, _only the full stories now, I’m not a boy anymore._ Then, Jaime would give Ser Brynden his arms and armor back and return him, in full honor, to Riverrun, for what would be the glory in taking Riverrun from some decrepit old castellan? _No, that’s not good enough._

_Nothing can ever be good enough, but I can try._

_Suck on **that** chivalry, **Lord Stark.**_

            The first hint that something was wrong came when the leading riders started to be thrown from their horses. In the mad fury of the charge, dozens of men had surged ahead of Jaime and the standard, and Jaime had let them, _they want their glory, too, and who am I to deny them,_ but through the crack of the eyeslit in his helm, he watched, dumbfounded, as those same glory-mad knights and freeriders were, one after the other, thrown from their saddles, their horses rearing in mad, wild-eyed panic. Instantly, Jaime knew what had happened. The Blackfish, _that wily old dog,_ had ordered caltrops to be scattered in his wake, probably as soon as he realized he was trapped. _Of course,_ Jaime thought, mentally kicking himself, _should’ve seen it._ The caltrops would panic the horses, the horses would buck and rear and throw off their riders, and the momentum of the charge would be broken. 

            _If the charge was led by a lesser man._

Jaime grinned beneath his helm and spurred his horse to a fresh burst of speed. The Blackfish wasn’t going to get away _that_ easy. This was his moment, _his victory,_ and he would _not_ be denied, _by the Seven and their Seven Hells…_

But then he saw a white blur leap out of the shadows, clasp its jaws around a man’s throat, and drag the man to the ground.

            A moment later, Jaime heard the horns, and chaos came hot on their heels.

            “ _Hold charge!”_ he screamed, loud enough to make his throat hurt and his voice crack. “ _Hold the fucking charge!”_ He needed to get control of his men, _get control of the situation,_ but he didn’t even know the situation, didn’t _understand_ the situation, a voice that sounded annoyingly like Tyrion’s whispered that he had been tricked, that he had been outsmarted, _that he had been beaten,_ but he thrust the voice aside, refused to listen. _No, I refuse._

_I am **not** beaten, by the Seven! _

            **_NEVER!_**

But as he pulled his horse to a violent, jaw-rattling stop, he knew that he was. Arrows were thudding home among his men, horses were screaming, the roars of victory had been replaced by cries of panic and defeat. He looked to his right, watched, awestruck, as men came boiling out of the trees, swords and spears flashing in the moonlight, banners snapping in the wind as they bore down on his men. He looked to his front, saw the same thing, saw the river lords turn and charge, watched as even _more_ men came boiling out of even _more_ trees, looked to his rear, saw his escape cut off, _looked to his left…_

_He looked to his left, and saw the biggest banner of the all burst from the tree line, saw the direwolf gallop across a silver-grey field…_

_No,_ he thought, gritting his teeth, _I’m not beaten yet._

_I can still win this, by the gods…_

He turned back to his men, found Lord Estren still in his saddle, still beside him. He reached out, thumped Lord Estren on the shoulder, pointed at the big Stark banner that was roaring down upon them. All around, the northmen and the river lords were already upon them, swamping the outer edges of what little remained of the formation, swords flashing white and scarlet in the moonlight as steel shrieked against steel and men began to die in earnest.

            _“The standard!”_ Jaime screamed. “ _Order the trumpets to sound a rally, and strike for the standard!”_

The red eagle bobbed up and down in a nod. “Strike off the head, and we can still win!” Lord Estren shouted back, before turning to the nearest trumpeter and rattling off orders.

            Jaime didn’t wait for anyone to hear, _didn’t wait for anyone to understand,_ just spurred his horse back into the gallop and _charged._

            Men must have heard, or mayhaps they only saw him charge, because when he met the northern tide, he was not alone, _not that he cared,_ this was between him and the seven-damned Young Wolf now, the whelp may have outsmarted him, _but he hadn’t beaten him,_ and he would prove it, prove it in blood and horror at the tip of his sword.

            _And how he made his sword sing._ He had never been stronger, _never been faster,_ none could stand before him. He swung and slashed and parried and thrust until his blade was dripping from tip to hilt in blood, until his armor was splattered in gore. He left a trail of misery and death in his wake, but he didn’t notice, _wouldn’t have cared if he had,_ he was _Jaime Fucking Lannister by the gods, the Warrior Himself wouldn’t stop him today,_ he drove into the northmen, he hacked and he slashed and _he killed,_ he cut down men like a scullery maid would swat down flies, _and it was glorious,_ this was life, _this was living, this was what he was made for,_ he saw the Young Wolf beneath his banner and roared, he laughed and he roared and spurred ever onward, men began to close on him, a boy with a white sunburst on a black surcoat got his way, and he cut the boy down like a peasant cut grass, the blood turned black by the light of the moon as it sprayed through the air, and then another boy came, this one with a damned _moose_ on his shield and surcoat, but Jaime didn’t care, he knocked the boy’s sword from the boy’s hand on the back swing, the sunburst boy’s blood still spaying from the tip of Jaime’s sword, and when he brought the sword back around he would cut this boy down, too, he was _Jaime Fucking Lannister_ and nothing could stop him, _nothing, he would cut down the moose boy and oh, look, another sunburst boy is right behind him, I’ll cut that whelp down, too, and then the Young Wolf will taste my steel and there’s nothing that can-_

His sword stopped in a shriek of steel-on-steel as another sword appeared as if from thin air to meet it. Jaime blinked, turned, _looked…_

 _“No,”_ he whimpered in the voice of a frightened child. _“No... you’re **dead…** ”_

All he could see of the face of the man whose sword had stopped his own was a jaw and chin jutting out from a half-helm, but it wasn’t those that stopped him, _though he would’ve known the cut of that jaw anywhere, he saw it in far too many dreams,_ but it was the eyes, _the eyes…_

_**The eyes…**_

Jaime never had another chance to think. The dead man effortlessly knocked Jaime’s sword from fingers suddenly gone limp and lifeless, leaped off the saddle of his own horse, hurled himself at Jaime, wrapped his arms around Jaime’s body, and drove Jaime from his saddle and into the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the shit just hit the fan, huh...
> 
> The cat is well and truly out of the bag now, isn't it? This chapter really speaks for itself, so I'm not going to sully it with a bunch of rambling on about it. Just...enjoy. 
> 
> I mean, I told you guys that the Whispering Wood was going to be super important, didn't I?
> 
> Just a couple of housekeeping chores before I go (it's almost 11:30 pm here in Texas). First, one of you asked if, with regards to my demand that people cut out the misogynistic crap towards various female characters, you could still call Sansa a twit. To that, I say, I mean, yeah, if she's being one. Just remember that everyone is a bit of a twit at that age, you know? I mean, fuck, I know I was a massive tool at 15/16, just the worst. I had this belief back then that I just parroted my step-dad's borderline fascist views hard and loud enough, maybe this time he wouldn't beat the shit out of me. Spoiler Alert: Didn't work.
> 
> Another commenter asked a good question about, if Varys knew the truth about Jon, why didn't he try and stop Jon from going to the Wall? In my mind, there are a couple reasons, mostly boiling down to how by the time he knew about the Wall thing, it might've been too late, shit was hitting the fan in King's Landing, he still had his hopes on Daenerys/fake Aegon, and, finally, GRRM losing control of all his plot threads. The last is a big one, let's be real.
> 
> Finally, I mentioned that I have a plan for how to structure this tale going forward, and like I said, we'll address that later, so, Friday, I guess.
> 
> Speaking of...
> 
> Moving on! In Friday's episode, Jon sees the elephant and glimpses his destiny. Stay tuned!


	45. Jon

FOR ONE BRIGHT, SHINING MOMENT, IT WAS GLORIOUS.

            All his life, Jon had dreamed of being a soldier, of charging into glorious battle and wielding his sword in defense of the honor of his family, of House Stark, _of the North._ In battle, no one cared if one was a bastard or not, the only thing that mattered was whether one could _fight,_ and Jon believed that he could do just that. He devoured books of war and conquest, read Daeron I’s _The Conquest of Dorne_ a half-a-hundred times, went to sleep to dreams of glory. Even in his dreams, he was never the leader, but his brother was always there, Jon riding at his side, and together they would charge and vanquish the enemies of House Stark and all the thousand-thousand pains and heartaches and inequities of his birth would melt away. Sometimes, in the dreams he told no one, the dreams he barely admitted to himself, Lady Stark would be there, and she would watch his glorious ride and afterwards she would embrace him and promise to be the mother he so desperately wanted her to become, give him the approval and forgiveness he craved in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind.

            And, in that bright, shining moment, as they broke through the tree line and roared down upon the Lannisters, it was everything he could have wished for _and more,_ because, by the gods, _it was **real.**_

            It was the single most beautiful thing he had ever seen, thousands of mounted warriors all over the valley bursting out of the trees, the moonlight rippling across plate and mail and sparkling across raised swords and spears. The world was a cacophony of thundering hooves and roaring men and Jon was a part of it, riding beside his brother just like in his dreams, the great Stark banner snapping in the wind as they bore down upon the enemy. His heart was in his throat and he could barely breathe, all vestiges of fear and terror and doubt were gone, _wiped away by the wind and the roar of onrushing victory,_ this was his moment, _his time to shine,_ and after today no one would ever call him _the Bastard of Winterfell_ ever again, or if they did, _it would no longer be an insult,_ and all he had to do was fight and win and all would be forgiven and he would never feel shame or fear or envy ever again.

            Then the Kingslayer in his golden armor rallied a few hundred men and charged up to meet them and Jon’s bright, shining moment of glory turned into hell.

            It wasn’t just bad, _it was worse than he could possibly have imagined,_ his world narrowed, here in the middle of thousands of struggling and dying men he was all on his own, fighting a lonely battle. The roars and cheers were gone, and all he could hear was the _crash,_ the shriek of steel-on-steel, the screams of dying horses and the whimpers and cries of dying men, he was hacking and slashing and parrying and he didn’t know what he was doing, _didn’t know what was happening,_ he just knew that he had to hack and slash _and hack and slash **and hack and slash**_ and maybe, _just maybe,_ he would survive, he was scared, _terrified, more terrified than he had the words to describe,_ his mind reeled, it felt like he was fighting and clawing his way through a thick, murky stew, men were screaming and crying and dying and begging for mercy and how could he _ever_ have wanted to be a part of _this_ he wanted to run away, he wanted to turn tail and _flee_ and never ever look back _but he couldn’t, **what would Robb say,**_ he couldn’t leave his brother behind so he stayed and he fought _and he killed,_ he didn’t even notice the first man he killed until the man was dying, somehow Jon had parried his blade and gotten under the swing of the man’s sword and Jon had driven his sword through the man’s gut and blood was burbling out of the man’s mouth and the man choked a word out through the blood but Jon didn’t hear, he just twisted and withdrew his sword and charged on and he didn’t even know he’d killed a man until he was cutting down his third and he found himself wondering where all the blood on his sword had come from and he wanted to retch he wanted to curl up in a ball and cry and cry _and cry how could men enjoy this who could ever enjoy this this is **hell**_ -

            Once, Father had told Jon and Robb that the true cowards were those who went forward because they were more afraid of being called cowards than they were of dying. Jon and his brother had expressed doubt for this statement, and Father had just sighed and told them that one day, they would understand.

            _Well, I fucking well understand **now**_. He didn’t want to go forward, but he couldn’t bear to go back, so forward he went, hacking and slashing and parrying and stabbing _and killing_ and time passed, it could’ve been mere moments and it could’ve been hours, Jon would’ve believed either one, but then he was turning his horse around, he was facing back up the slope they had charged down and the Kingslayer was cutting down one of the Karstark boys and with a sickening, sinking feeling he knew, _knew in his bones,_ that the Kingslayer was trying to kill Robb and Jon couldn’t let him do that, he was no match for the Kingslayer _and he knew it, he knew he was going to die,_ but he couldn’t let the Kingslayer kill his brother, _I promised Rickon that I would bring Robb home,_ so he dug his heels into his horse and the horse shot forward and the Kingslayer had knocked Daryn Hornwood’s sword from his hand and Jon rode fast he had to move faster _I’m going to die but I have to move faster_ and he brought his horse to a stop so fast he bit his tongue _or he thought he bit his tongue, mayhaps it was only his cheek but there was blood in his mouth either way_ and he turned to face the Kingslayer and raised his sword and he looked the Kingslayer right in the eyes, _I’m going to die I’m going to die I’m going to die sorry Roslin I didn’t mean to but I’m going to die-_

_“No.”_

Jon’s ears were ringing, the shock of his sword meeting the Kingslayer’s was rippling up and down Jon’s arm and Jon blinked and watched as the Kingslayer went pale as milk, watched as the Kingslayer’s eyes went wide, watched as the Kingslayer turned from a god of death, the Warrior incarnate, into a frightened child in the blink of an eye.

            _“You’re dead…”_

Jon couldn’t imagine what he had done to earn the gods’ favor, couldn’t fathom what ghosts and terrors the gods were cloaking him in to make the Kingslayer so afraid, and he didn’t care, he couldn’t let the Kingslayer blink, _couldn’t let the Kingslayer think,_ so he drew back his sword and brought it down, _the Kingslayer’s sword just fell to the ground, as if the man’s fingers had turned to the flimsiest of silks,_ Jon didn’t think, _he couldn’t think,_ he dropped his sword and hurled himself at the Kingslayer, Jon wrapped his arms around the man who had tried to kill his brother, _two of his brothers if Lady Stark was right,_ he threw all of his weight into the Kingslayer’s chest and together they fell _and fell…_

They hit the ground with a _thump_ as loud as the ending of the world. Blood burst anew in Jon’s mouth, _I definitely bit something,_ but it didn’t matter, Jon straddled the Kingslayer and tore off the man’s bright golden helm, _the helm that was splattered with blood and gore and mud,_ he tore off the helm and tossed it aside and his dagger was in his hand, _which was weird, he didn’t remember drawing his dagger, it just appeared in his hand,_ he leaned back down and put the point of the dagger just below the Kingslayer’s eye and Jon screamed one word, he screamed it so loud it felt like his whole _being_ was going to shred apart.

            **_“YIELD!!!!”_**

The Kingslayer opened his eyes, _or tried to,_ the eyes were rattling in their sockets, trying to focus, the man was still pale as milk and there were tears in his eyes, whether of pain or fear Jon didn’t know, _didn’t care,_ the man was trying to speak, he opened and closed his mouth and the eyes began to focus but when they did the Kingslayer looked like he wished they hadn’t.

            _“No...you...you’re dead...you died at the Trident...they said-”_

Jon drew back his free hand and slapped the Kingslayer across the face. _“Shut the fuck up, I don’t care, **YIELD!!!”**_

            The Kingslayer gaped and gawked and the tears were pouring freely now, Jon had no idea why this man, _this monster,_ should be crying, but Jon still needed an answer and he drew back his hand one more time and the Kingslayer flinched, blood burst out from where Jon’s dagger was pricking the man’s cheek but the Kingslayer didn’t seem to notice, he had the air of a puppy who had been kicked one too many times and Jon didn’t understand, _didn’t care,_ he was going to slap the son-of-a-bitch until he got his answer _and-_

_“I yield...you win, I should’ve known, should’ve known...I yield…”_

Jon let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and rose, still straddling the Kingslayer, _he wasn’t about to trust a man known as **the Kingslayer** not to go back on his word,_ looked around. A strange quiet had fallen, _the lull after the storm,_ the battle had moved on, down into the valley, and everywhere Jon looked, the ground was covered with dead and dying men and horses, the air was rent with cries of pain and terror and grown men begging for mercy and sobbing for their mothers. 

            It was the worst thing Jon had ever seen. _The Young Dragon never mentioned **this** in his gods-damned book. _

_I’ll burn the fucking thing first chance I get._

“I owe you my life.”

            Jon blinked. He felt untethered, _unmoored,_ time was passing but he had no sense of it, _no understanding of it,_ he looked forward, down towards the valley, watched the last Lannister diehards fight and die, watched far more throw down their swords and raise their hands, watched, dumbfounded, _as if from far away,_ as men began to trickle up from the valley floor, some wounded and bleeding, others smiling bright and happy, leading unarmed knights missing their gauntlets and helms. 

            “Ser Jon…?”

            Jon blinked. _Why am I blinking so much?_ He looked down, down at the Kingslayer. The man had passed out, _or mayhaps he fainted, he was so scared, we hit the ground so hard,_ Jon was afraid for a moment, _what if he’s died, that is no good at all, **we need him alive,**_ but no, the man’s chest was still rising and falling and Jon breathed a sigh of relief.

            “Ser Jon…? Are you alright…?”

            Jon turned, frowned. _What…?_ Daryn Hornwood was kneeling before him, his head bared, his helm resting on the ground, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his head, thick locks stuck to his face. Jon tried to speak, couldn’t, _his mouth was dry as sand,_ so he swallowed and wet his lips and tried again and when he finally spoke, his voice was a cracked, strangled thing. _“Pardon…?”_

Daryn gestured at the prostrate Kingslayer. “He...he was going to kill me, he’d knocked my sword from my hand, he’d killed... _he’d killed…”_ Daryn gulped, held a hand to his mouth, breathed deep and loud, in and out, started again. “He’d killed Torrhen, _cut him down like he was nothing,_ and then he was coming for me and I knew I was going to die and you... _you stopped him…”_

Jon looked back down at the Kingslayer. “I... _I suppose I did…”_ He couldn’t quite believe it.

            It all felt like a horrid dream now.

            “So... Ser Jon?”

            Jon turned back to Daryn. “Aye?”

            “I... I owe you my life. I am your man, to the death.”

            Jon nodded. “Okay.” And with that, he tore off his helm, turned to the side, and retched until his ribs hurt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then...
> 
> Originally, this chapter would've come on Monday, and what will be Monday's chapter would've come today, but I found myself really enjoying the juxtaposition of Jaime's reveling in battle and Jon's realization that war is the fucking worst, so I switched them around and I'm pretty happy that I did. For those playing the home game, the whole the cowards are the ones who go forward because they're afraid of being called cowards is something my great-uncle (whom I've mentioned before) told me. I'd asked him how he had the courage to always go forward, and he told me that he hadn't, he'd always been afraid, but he was just more afraid of being called a coward, so forward he went.
> 
> Like Ser Barristan said, there is nothing more absurd. 
> 
> There's really nothing more to add here, so I'm going to do some housekeeping. First, I've hinted a bit about how we're going to structure things going forward, and I guess I have to make with the goods now, huh? Basically, we're going to finish where the first book of the series finished, and then we're going to do a time skip into A Storm of Swords, with maybe a few somewhat standalone stories to fill the gap. Half the storylines in Clash of Kings spend that book in a weird kind of stasis anyways, so I figured it would be alright if I skip ahead a bit. That'll be Part Two, so to speak, and then we'll do another little time skip/drabble collection to this little AU's conclusion. If all goes well (fingers crossed) we'll finish sometime next year.
> 
> If all goes well...
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, Catelyn tries to be nice. Stay tuned!


	46. Catelyn

MEN WERE GOING TO DIE. Catelyn couldn’t stop thinking about it. Do in the valley below, under a moon so beautiful it made her heart ache, men, _no, **boys,**_ were going to die, and all she could do was sit her horse atop a hill, high above it all, and _wait._

_I’m always waiting, aren’t I? My men have always made me wait. First Father, then Ned, and now Robb…_

_Now Robb…_

Her eyes burned, but she blinked, again and again and _again,_ until the sharp, stinging sensation of unshed tears was willed away. She was the Lady Stark, _Seven dammit,_ and she would not cry. She was a woman grown, daughter of Riverrun, _Family, Duty, Honor,_ not a weak-kneed little girl, and she would _not_ cry, no matter how much the fear clawed its way up her spine and sank its ice cold fingers into her heart. 

            She would not _cry._

            She took a deep breath, let it out, _forced it out,_ forced it past the sharp, jagged _thing_ in her throat, cursed herself for never insisting on Ned telling her his war stories. Any time the boys had asked him for details, she had gathered her skirts, grabbed Sansa and Arya by the scruffs of their necks, and left the room, _but now she wished she hadn’t._ Mayhaps it would be better, if she had some idea of what her son was facing, down there on the valley floor where so many boys just like him were about to die. Mayhaps it would be better, if her imagination had something concrete to cling to, rather than a thousand-thousand vague, horrid nightmares.

            _Mayhaps it would be better, if I could imagine Ned’s bastard riding back alive…_

She flinched. She always flinched, when she thought things like that, because, dammit, _Robb was right, Jon never committed any crime beyond being born, and no one ever asked for that, did they?_ But she had been raised on tales of perfidious bastards grasping and clawing their way over the dead bodies of their betters, and now a part of her wanted to imagine the same, to imagine Ned’s bastard son riding up before her and tossing Robb’s dead body at her feet and saying, _I’m the lord now, and you’ll pay for eight-and-ten years of cold indifference._

She would deserve every ounce of it, the Mother whispered in her ear, and yet…

            _And yet…_

_Jon would never leave Robb behind._

_If Robb dies, it’ll because the Kingslayer had to ride over Jon’s broken body…_

Her mind rebelled against the thought, and yet, somehow, she could imagine nothing else. The bastard boy, _the motherless child,_ she had spent eight-and-ten years pretending didn’t exist would _die_ before he’d let anything happen to _her son,_ and somehow, that hurt more than anything else.

            A steady, droning voice to her left called out to her, and she turned her head, saw to her shock that Hallis Mollen, _Seven bless him,_ was still talking, _still droning on._ Hallis was a good man, _a loyal man,_ Winterfell’s captain of guards, _had begged the honor of protecting her and Roslin during the battle to come,_ and yet, he had always been one for stating the obvious. A part of her recognized that it was merely his own way of dealing with nerves, _but another part…_

She looked, off to her right, to another horse, further up the hill. A young lady sat atop that horse, _a girl, really,_ the wife of her husband’s bastard, one of the Manderlys’ Myrish spy glasses stuck to her eye, Lord Hornwood’s bastard, _Ned’s bastard’s squire,_ holding the reins of her horse, gaze locked on the Lannister horse charging into the trap. _I bought that girl,_ a voice that Catelyn barely recognized snarled deep in her heart. _Her father sold her, and I bought her, and we did it with as much thought as we’d give to selling a prize mare._

Catelyn blinked, and just like that, she wasn’t the Lady of Winterfell, wife to the Lord Paramount of the North, no, _she was a girl once more,_ even younger than the girl who sat that horse. Thirty-thousand men were sprawled in teeming camps in the hills around Riverrun, and Father had been locked in his solar with Jon Arryn and a shy, sword-thin young boy named _Eddard Stark_ for the past two days. The rumors from the south were bad, _at least, they were bad for those who hated the Mad King,_ Robert Baratheon had suffered a defeat, _had taken a wound,_ the new Hand, Lord Connington, was hunting the man down, _was expected to find him any day now,_ and Catelyn was on her knees in the sept, praying for guidance.

            _I need to speak to you, girls,_ Father said, as he settled himself atop a stool and shooed the septon away. _I’ve made a very important decision, and I’m afraid you’re both going to have to live with it._

Lysa had burst into tears, for all that Catelyn had told her to expect it. Poor Lysa, still mad with love for Petyr, had fled the sept in hysterics, leaving only Catelyn and her father…

            _I know you had your heart set on Brandon, and I’m sorry, but this is the best thing for our House, for our family…_

There had been so many things Catelyn had wanted to say, not least among them, _Did I?_ She had never asked herself if she liked Brandon Stark. It hadn’t seemed to matter, so she didn’t bother considering it. Smallfolk may marry whom they liked for whatever reason struck their fancy, but she was Catelyn Tully, _and I have my duty._ Once, her father had sold her to one Stark boy, and now he was selling her to that Stark boy’s infamously shy brother, _so what did it matter?_

 _He was handsome, though._ She remembered that, remembered thinking it, as her and Lysa were marched into the sept by Father. _He was handsome, and that night, he was kind and gentle._

 _More handsome than his brother,_ she still thought, for all that she had never, _would never,_ say it. 

            _And then he went to war, and left me to wait, and when I greeted him at the gates of Winterfell, our son crying in my arms, he had his son in his arms, too…_

_He had Jon…_

She bit down on half-remembered rage. _A motherless child…_ She turned to Hallis, who was still prattling on about the obvious, _They’re coming, my ladies, gods be with us,_ and smiled her most courteous, disarming smile. “Hallis…?”

            Hallis skidded to a stop mid-sentence, turned to her, bowed his head. “Yes, Lady Stark?”

            “I appreciate your wisdom, I do. Alas,” she paused, gestured at where the Lady Roslin sat her horse, gripping her spy glass so tight the thing was shaking, “I fear that Lady Roslin may find your candor... _distressing…_ ”

            Hallis flushed bright red and bowed his head once more. “Apologies, Lady Stark. I...did not mean to upset the young lady.”

            Catelyn let out a soft, almost _giggly_ laugh, patted Hallis on the shoulder. “Of course not, but poor Roslin is... _so young,_ this is dreadful hard for her…”

            Hallis nodded, turning ever more bright shades of red. “Naturally, Lady Stark. I should’ve been...I should’ve considered the young lady’s feelings. Please convey to her my apologies.”

            Catelyn gave his arm a squeeze and flashed her brightest smile yet. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

            “As you wish, Lady Stark.” Hallis was a good man, and took the hint. He bowed once more, cantered his horse a little further, gathered some men about him, continued stating the obvious, _only in a lower voice this time._

            Leaving Catelyn to do something she didn’t understand.

            She had never hated Jon. _How could she? He was only a child, after all._ But, she could never forget what the septons and septas had told her, could never forget the lessons drilled into her heart, _could never forget the humiliation she had felt, standing in the snow-covered yard of Winterfell, her husband matching their son with one of his own._ She had tried, _oh, how she’d tried,_ but she just _couldn’t,_ still couldn’t, _and it was so stupid, he’s done everything that’s been asked of him, done everything **I’ve** asked of him, _and now her husband’s bastard was going to risk his life for his father’s trueborn son, _and I sitll can’t be **kind** to the boy…_

Catelyn looked at Roslin, and felt something unclench in her heart.

            _But I can be kind to a young river girl, sold off to a kind, handsome northern boy…_

“Olyvar?” 

            The young man holding her horse turned to face her, bowed his head. “Yes, my lady?”

            “I was wondering if you could run over and ask your sister if she would come and pray with me.”

            Olyvar Frey made a face. “Lady Stark, I am...my sister, she said…”

            Catelyn flashed the same gentle, disarming smile that she had used on Hallis Mollen. _A lady’s armor is her courtesy, after all. It’s what I drilled into Sansa’s head, and dammit it all, it’s true. We have precious little other protection available to us, after all._ “I know, she wishes to watch the battle, but...it has been so long since I was able to pray to the Seven with another of the Faith…”

            She trailed off, and watched her son’s squire nod and bow. “I will tell her, Lady Stark.” He ran off, and Catelyn watched as he spoke to his sister, watched Lord Hornwood’s bastard lead her horse back to Catelyn.

            Catelyn took one look at the girl, and was glad she had called her away from her vigil. Roslin Frey, _no, Roslin **Snow** now, mayhaps soon to be Roslin **Stark,**_ was pale as bone, trembling from head-to-toe, _terrified._

            Catelyn knew how the girl felt. _Oh, by the Seven, do I know how she feels._ “Lady Roslin.”

            The girl bowed her head. “Lady Stark.”

            Catelyn held out her hand. “I think it would be best if you gave me that spy glass.”

            Roslin looked back, over her shoulder, down towards the valley floor where war horns were blowing and men were starting to die. “But…”

            Catelyn smiled. “It won’t help to watch, trust me. Give me the glass.”

            Roslin gripped the glass tight, pressed it to her chest. “But, Lady Stark, I’m sorry, _but…_ ”

            Catelyn bit down on a sigh. _She’s more like me that she will ever know._ “Very well, keep it, but tell me...do you know _The Mother’s Hymn?”_

            Roslin looked up, eyes wide with fear. “I...I do, Lady Stark.”

            Catelyn spread the fingers on her outstretched hand. “Then, would you do my the honor of singing it with me?”

            The girl swallowed, threw one last look over her shoulder, and then her eyes were clamped shut and her hand was shooting out, her fingers were digging into Catelyn’s hand but Catelyn barely felt any discomfort at all, _it’s quite alright,_ and then the girl began to sing.

            _Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_  
            save our sons from war, we pray,  
            stay the swords and stay the arrows,  
            let them know a better day.

Catelyn sighed, and joined her.

            _Gentle Mother, strength of women,_  
            help our daughters through this fray,  
            soothe the wrath and tame the fury,  
            teach us all a kinder way.

And so they sang, over and over, until the war horns were sounding calls of victory and they could no longer hear men dying on the valley floor, and when her husband’s bastard came galloping up the hill beside her son, the unconscious Kingslayer draped over the back of his horse, Catelyn did her very best to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, this is late...
> 
> And I'm sorry for that. But September was...it was tough, you guys, and the cold I've been ignoring for two weeks finally came and kicked me in the ass, and then I had to spend most of Monday yelling at my student loan company, and I just...didn't have the energy.
> 
> But I couldn't put this off any longer, and I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Moving on! In later today's episode, Ser Forley is getting worried. Stay tuned!


	47. Samwell

HE WAS FRIGHTENED. He shouldn’t have been, but here he was, standing alone in the Lord Commander’s solar, nearly a dozen men staring at him, and he was afraid. It made him sick to his stomach, the fear. Sam had looked the worst possible thing a man could see in its inhuman, burning blue eyes and survived, had watched a headless _thing_ beat its bloody stump on a wall of ice, seen the smear of pitch black blood on the wall a few days later. Just the other day, Sam had argued with Maester Aemon, feeling not the least twinge of fear as he made the case that the kind old man wanted his inventory organized was not the most efficient way to do it.

            And yet, here he stood, his knees shaking, his hands trembling, feeling as if someone had cut his tongue out and thrown it on the floor.

            Part of him wanted to blame the audience. They were all there, the senior captains and commanders of the Night’s Watch, men as hard and cold as the winter itself. In the middle, right in front of Sam, were the men of Castle Black, Lord Commander Mormont brooding in the middle, Maester Aemon to his right, Ser Alliser to his left, Bowen Marsh lounging against the wall behind them. 

            Sam’s eyes flicked to his right, the Lord Commander’s left, to the men of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. Cotter Pyke sat in their midst, as was his right as commander of the castle, close-set eyes glaring out from a pox-scarred face. With him sat Maester Harmune, necessary because Pyke could neither read nor write, for all that the man’s drink-washed eyes made him look half-drunk even when he wasn’t, along with tall and lanky Iron Emmett and Ser Glendon Hewett, yet another of the Watch’s eclectic collection of old Targaryen loyalists. Sam’s eyes flicked the other way, and he found himself being pierced through by the hard, blue-grey eyes of Ser Denys Mallister, commander of the Shadow Tower, eyes somehow made harder and colder by the man’s bald head and long, snow-white beard. The Shadow Tower sat at the far end of the Wall, where the only things stopping wildling raiders were the mountains, the Gorge, and the steel of its black brothers, and the men who served there seemed to match its needs. Mallister was surrounded by such men, with Qhorin Halfhand sitting at his right, the hardened ranger’s maimed hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, while Stonesnake, Blane, and Ser Byam Flint lounged around them, Stonesnake and Blane sitting, Byam Flint lounging against the wall in what Sam hoped was unconscious mockery of Bowen Marsh.

            Excepting Maester Harmune, every one of them was a hardened, experienced killer, men who had long since forgotten what it was like to be warm.

            _And they’re all staring at **me.**_

            It was enough to make Sam want to burst into tears and run from the room. He didn’t, though. He felt like that was some sort of victory, a paltry, mocking victory, mayhaps, but a victory, nonetheless.

            Not that it helped him force words past the lump in his throat.

            “By the Drowned God in his watery halls,” Cotter Pyke growled, his voice sounding like he broke his fast on crushed glass, “is the boy simple, or merely craven?” As the man took a gulp from his horn of ale and slumped back in his seat, Sam found himself remembering how the stories had it that Pyke had been born a bastard off a tavern wench in the Iron Islands. Somehow, it failed to make him feel better. If anything, it made him feel worse, even _thinking_ about thinking such thoughts based on bastardy.

            Sam opened his mouth and tried to reply, but it was the Lord Commander who answered for him. “He’s neither, Cotter, and you’d do well to remember it.”

            Pyke scoffed, took another gulp of ale. “He looks like he’s set to piss his britches to me.”

            “And yet, he kept his head,” Ser Alliser snarled, turning his flinty gaze from Sam to Pyke, “while the rest of us stood there and shit ourselves.” Sam bit down on a yelp. He still didn’t know what was worse: Alliser Thorne being cruel, or Alliser Thorne being something that could almost be called kind. “I’ll grant you that he’s fat as a harvest day pig and just as helpless with a sword, but he kept his head when the rest of us could barely remember where our heads even _were._ That’s enough for me, and it should be enough for _you._ ”

            Pyke returned Ser Alliser glare for glare, and looked like he was about to snarl right back, but it was Ser Denys who saved Sam. “You’re a Tarly,” Ser Denys said, “are you not?”

            Sam’s gaze snapped to Ser Denys so fast that, for a moment, he felt somewhat dizzy, but he was glad that the old man spoke. Even after most of a lifetime at the Wall and more than thirty years commanding the Shadow Tower, Ser Denys Mallister still spoke with the relatively soft tones of the South. There was knightly courtesy there, too, and Sam latched onto it like a drowning man would latch on to a piece of driftwood in a storm. “Yes, ser,” Sam said, his first words since he had been all but shoved into the solar, the door slamming behind him like the end of the world. _Somehow,_ he managed not to stammer. “My father is Lord Randyll Tarly.”

            Ser Denys harrumphed. “If I remember right, I unhorsed your grandfather at a tourney once.”

            Sam nodded, aware that he looked like a child’s toy whose head was about to pop off, unable to stop. “Yes, ser, both my grandfathers, actually.”

            Ser Denys’s bushy eyebrows popped up. “Oh?”

            “Yes, ser. My mother is a Florent, and Alester Florent was her father.”

            Ser Denys smiled, or at the very least his beard moved in a way that suggested he was doing something of the sort. “Ah, I remember Alester. Shared a drink with me at the feast afterwards, led a toast to my victory. Can’t say that your Tarly grandsire showed the same courtesy.”

            _No,_ Sam thought, _I would imagine not._ Sam had never known his father’s father, but he couldn’t imagine that the man had been much different from Randyll Tarly. _Apples may fall far from the tree,_ a nanny had once told him, _but they tend to have the shape the branch gave them._ That nanny had been dismissed by Sam’s father for being _too kind,_ so Sam was inclined to lend credence to her words. _She never pinched me and let me read books when I was supposed to be in bed, dressed in armor and cradling a sword. Sometimes, when Father was away, she would even let me go to bed without the armor._

            Sam forced a deep breath past the lump in his throat, forced it back out. _None of which serves me now._

He frowned. _Or mayhaps, it was the kindness that helped most of all. Seven know that cruelty never did me any good._

            He tore his gaze away from Ser Denys, _tore his gaze away from all of them,_ looked down at the notes he held in his trembling hands. Sam couldn’t fight, but he could read, so he decided that that was what he would do.

            He had been called there to read, and so he read. His voice stammered and quivered and shook, but he read, he read and told his tale, and when he was done, it took every fiber of his being not to fling the notes to the floor and flee.

            He didn’t, though. It felt like something akin to a victory.

            When Sam finally managed the courage to look up, he found that no one was looking at him anymore. They were all silent, _silent as the grave,_ he couldn’t help but think, and the eyes that weren’t looking off into some distant horizon were locked on the Lord Commander, who was busy looking at where his clasped hands rested on the table in front of him.

            For a moment, Sam was tempted to take his chances and run, but when he tried to move, he found that what little courage he had scraped up to read his notes and tell his tale had been exhausted, and all he could do was stand and try not to shake.

            It was Cotter Pyke, predictably enough, who broke the silence.

            “Is this true?”

            “Of course, it’s true,” Ser Alliser snapped. “You think we called you here on a lark?”

            Pyke’s already narrow eyes narrowed even more. “As opposed to what, expecting us to believe that the dead can rise from their graves and kill living men?”

            Maester Aemon shifted in his seat, steepling his fingers and resting their tips against his chin. “It does _sound_ impossible, I’ll grant you,” the old man said, resting his kind eyes on Sam, “and yet, it happened. It is a _fact,_ Cotter, no matter how unlikely it may seem.”

            The Halfhand frowned into his ale before setting it down on the table with a _thump_ that made Sam flinch. “You saw it, m’lord?”

            The Old Bear nodded, though to Sam’s eyes it looked like it pained him. The Lord Commander had been like that oft of late. “We all did, Qhorin, though Tarly and I were the only ones who came out of the storeroom alive.”

            “The damn thing that followed them out was real enough for all of us,” Ser Alliser continued, speaking in a voice gone suddenly small and quiet. Somehow, that frightened Sam more than anything, the idea that there was something out there that could make Alliser Thorne feel like a frightened child. “Stood there just as real as all of you, like a demon straight out of the lowest of the seven hells.”

            “A nightmare out of legend,” Maester Harmune muttered, before draining his latest horn of ale and pouring himself another.

            The Halfhand gave a short, sharp nod as he leaned back into his chair. “Then that’s good enough for me.” He jabbed the one remaining finger on his right hand at Pyke. “And it should be good enough for you, too, Pyke.”

            “It would explain much and more,” Ser Denys said, stroking his beard. “Much and more, indeed.”

            The Lord Commander frowned, arched an eyebrow at Ser Denys. “Explain.”

            Ser Denys waved a hand at the Halfhand, who picked his ale back up and took a deep swallow before answering. “You’ve seen our reports, m’lord. More wildlings than ever are attempting to cross the Gorge, and not raiders, neither. They have arms, I’ll grant you, and they’ll fight like cornered shadowcats if you try to stop them, but as oft as not, they are moving in family groups, the elderly and children, mothers carrying suckling babes at the breast. And they’re frightened, more frightened than I’ve words to describe.” He gestured towards Sam with his ale. “I doubt even the little lord here has enough words for _that_.”

            “And that’s when we find wildlings at all,” Ser Byam said, shoving himself off his patch of wall. “Before m’lord forbade any further rangings, we’d find entire villages, completely deserted, with naught so much as a dead dog to be seen.”

            “Abandoned?” the Lord Commander asked.

            The Halfhand shrugged. “Sometimes, m’lord. Other times, there’re signs of struggle, though what they’re struggled against, well…” He looked deep into his ale. “I have a feeling we know what they were fighting now.”

            “It would explain much that we’ve seen and heard at Eastwatch, as well,” Iron Emmett said, earning him a glare from Pyke. “Don’t look at me like that, Cotter,” Iron Emmett snapped. “How else are we to explain wildlings walking to the shore and willingly offering their children to any slaver that happens by?”

            Cotter shrugged. “Winter’s coming. There are always a few villages looking to unload useless mouths when winter comes.”

            “Aye,” Iron Emmett replied, “but they don’t go down to the shore in desperate droves, they just walk them up to the Wall and ask us if we have need of washerwomen.”

            “You can confirm this?” the Lord Commander asked.

            “Aye,” Cotter Pyke admitted with a heavy sigh, “we can. We can’t catch all the slavers, we haven’t the numbers, but when we catch one, the cargo is oft angrier with us than they are with the slavers.” Pyke rounded on Maester Harmune. “You’ve put this in the reports you send off, right?”

            Maester Harmune shrugged, and when he spoke, his words were more slurred than they had been before. _He’s drinking himself to death right here in front of us,_ Sam realized, astonished. He’d heard that the man was a sot, but to see it played out before his very eyes was... _unsettling._ “Of course, Cotter, though I may have...summarized things.” He slurped more ale, seemingly heedless of the bit that dribbled out of his mouth and down his chin. “You know full well that I have my letters, but I can’t make them sing.”

            For a moment, Pyke looked like he was about to hurl himself at the half-drunk maester and beat him to death, but in the end, he grunted and turned his back on the man. “Alright,” Pyke said, throwing his hands up, “there are queer things happening north of the Wall, queerer than usual, and the dead rising from the grave to kill the living would explain much of it.”

            “Have you a better explanation?” Ser Denys asked, unable to keep a sneer out of his voice. Even Sam knew that the two men detested each other.

            Pyke, it seemed, had noticed the unspoken sneer. “Go bugger a goat, you greenland prick,” he snarled, flipping Ser Denys the V.

            Ser Denys opened his mouth, no doubt to snarl back, but the Lord Commander cut him off. “Enough of that, you two. We might very well be facing the gravest threat to the realms of men in ten-thousand-years, we don’t have time to sit here and squabble like a gaggle of old women.” He unclasped his hands, placed them palms-down on the table, spread his fingers, and sighed. “The point is...what are we to do?”

            “That should be obvious, I imagine,” Cotter said. “Seal the gates, let them die.”

            “And when Mance Rayder hurls a hundred-thousand terrified warriors with demons from hell at their backs at us,” the Halfhand answered, “what are we to do then?”

            Pyke waved the idea away. “The Wall will stop them. That’s what it’s for.”

            “Like it stopped Gendel and Gorne?” Maester Aemon asked. “Like it stopped Raymun Redbeard? Neither of them had half Mance’s numbers, nor Others and wights at snapping at their heels.”

            “And we can’t rely on the Starks to help us, neither,” the Halfhand threw in. “Lord Stark is in chains, and his sons are a thousand leagues away.” He turned to the Lord Commander. “Unless you’ve had word otherwise since the last bird Maester Aemon sent us about it…?”

            The Lord Commander shook his head. “Alas, no, and I doubt any of that will change any time soon.”

            “So,” Ser Denys said, “we’re on our own, then.”

            Sam couldn’t help but notice it wasn’t a question.

            When the Lord Commander spoke, his voice was soft, hardly more than a whisper, and he didn’t look up from where his hands were splayed on the table.

            “Not _entirely_ on our own, brothers…”

            Once, Sam’s lord father had dragged him to a tourney. Sam had hated every moment of it, not least when the trumpeters stepped out to announce the start of the challengers’ parade. They had raised their horns to their lips, taken deep breaths, and let out the loudest sound Sam had ever heard, louder even than the ringing in his ears that followed one of Father’s backhanded blows. 

            Somehow, the silence that fell after the Lord Commander spoke was a thousand-thousand times louder than that.

            In the end, for reasons known only to the gods, for Sam doubted that the man himself understood, it was Maester Harmune who broke the silence. “Has anyone got another flagon of ale to hand?”

            “Surely you’ve had enough,” Iron Emmett groaned, clapping a hand to his face.

            “If there’s enough ale in this world to make Others and wights and the prospect of sending men out to talk to Mance fucking Rayder seem sane,” Maester Harmune slurred, making strange faces into the bottom of his empty cup, “I’d love for someone to find it for me.”

            “He’s got you there, Emmett,” the Halfhand said, before picking up the half-empty flagon at his elbow. “The drunk has a point, though, m’lord. We’re like to be here a while.”

            The Lord Commander finally looked up from his hands. “Aye, we are. Tarly?”

            Sam tried not to yelp when he realized that the Lord Commander had spoken to him. He half-managed it. “Y-y-yes, my l-l-lord…?”

            “Stick your head out and send for more ale, and some food, too, while you’re at it.”

            Sam bowed his head. “A-a-at o-o-o- _once_ , my lord.”

            The Lord Commander nodded, shoved himself back from the table and into his chair. “And fetch yourself a damn chair while you’re at it. You’re making me nervous, standing there fidgeting like a maiden at her wedding feast.”

            Sam tried to reply, failed, gave up, and focused on doing as he had been told. It was better than thinking about how, when this proposed ranging happened, it would need a man who could read and write and handle ravens.

            Which meant _him,_ gods be good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Sam...
> 
> So, and I'm being serious here, that little break was exactly what I needed. On the day I finally announced it, the only thing that stopped me from coughing until I was throwing up was far more cough medicine than a man in charge of two small children under three should be taking. Today, I haven't coughed one bit. I really desperately needed to remove as much stress from my life as possible for a few days and just...try to feel better, you know? Also, I needed to remember just how much I love this story, and I finally did. I am so freaking excited for what I have in store for you. Like, I was excited to write this. It's been a few weeks since I was excited.
> 
> And here we are! I really like how this turned out. Full disclosure: A good chunk of my Wall/Night's Watch chapters for the foreseeable future are going to have a heavy dollop of wish fulfillment. Even the canon story is chock full of dumbasses being dumbasses; let me have my dreams, you know? Plus, I like seeing Sam in a starring role. A few of my more hostile reviewers have accused me of having Jon as my favorite, and while he is a favorite, Sam is the favorite. I identify with Sam hard. The only fictional character I identify more with than Sam is Zuko. Draw your own conclusions about my childhood from there.
> 
> Anyhoo, this chapter is already long enough, so I'm just going to take a dig at GRRM here, because the dude likes to prattle on about how he takes next to no inspiration from Tolkien, and yet one of his major POV characters is a kind hearted dude who doesn't realize he's a hero whose name is Sam. That's bordering on outright plagiarism, dude, and you know what? As problematic as Tolkien can be, at least he never wrote a story about a futuristic incel shagging zombie prostitutes.
> 
> Moving on! In Wednesday's episode, Ser Forley Prester just thought he was pissed off. Stay tuned!


	48. Ser Forley

“DAMN THE MAN.”

            On the other side of a ratty camp table that leaned like a drunken sailor, Ser Forley Prester’s son-in-law, Ser Horden Rogers, frowned at the plain fare spread out between them. “Beg pardon, good-father…?”

            Forley sighed, tossing the haunch of bread in his hands down into the trencher. Except for their squires, they were alone, the camp spread out around them, besieged Riverrun glowering above it all, like a great stone ship with its prow pointed downriver. All around them, the siege dragged on, the nights alive with the sound of axes, saws, and hammers, the besieging army building the equipment of war while Tully men with fish-crest helms glared down at them. The pale mare had yet to make an appearance, which meant that boredom was the greatest danger. Just that morning, bowmen on the ground and bowmen on the ramparts had spent a few hours shooting quarrels at each other, for lack of anything better to do as much as anything else. Forley had raged at the bowmen’s captain, for all that the captain had just stood and tried not to yawn, knowing just as well as Forley did that Forley was angry for want of something better to do, just like the bowmen.

            _And all the while, our commander is gone, chasing after ghosts like the fool that he is…_

“Apologies, Horden,” Forley said, leaning back in his creaking camp chair and snatching up his cup for a gulp of wine. “I did not mean to say that aloud.”

            His son-in-law made a face. “If you say so, good-father…”

            Forley sighed. He was angry and frustrated, but it would do no good to take it out on Horden. The young man was a good son-in-law, gentle and kind to Forley’s eldest daughter, who was very fond of the man. _And he’s given me two healthy grandsons, for all that it matters._ Lord Garrison, Forley’s cousin, was the head of House Prester, and the man had three living sons of his own, leaving Forley’s grandsons so far away from the lordship that it was almost laughable. _Emely was so distraught when our first child turned out to be a girl,_ Forley remembered, allowing himself a faint smile. _I had to take her in my arms and tell her that it didn’t matter, she could give me as many daughters as she wished and I would be perfectly happy._ Emely’s father had been a hard, cold man, distasteful of his bevy of daughters, and Emely hadn’t believed Forley until she’d given him a second daughter and Forley had gone out of his way to be pleased. 

            “I still can’t believe Ser Jaime didn’t give you the overall command in his absence,” Horden said, washing down a bite of sausage with a gulp of his own wine.

            Forley shrugged. “Lord Brax is the senior man here,” he said, gazing into the depths of his cup, watching the pale Arbor gold slosh in lazy circles against the sides. _Or, at least, the senior man after all the other lords and lordlings dashed off on the Kingslayer’s latest snipe hunt._ “Ser Jaime couldn’t very well pass him up for a glorified landed knight.” He said the words, but his heart was not in them. Lord Andros Brax was a good man, _as these things went,_ but he was a highborn fool. Lord Tywin had taken all the truly capable lords with him for his own host, no doubt trusting that his flighty son could be trusted to smash a weakened riverlands host at the Golden Tooth and invest Riverrun itself. Lord Tywin had bigger fish to fry, and mightier hosts to face, especially if the Vale decided to join the fighting. _Still though…_

 _My brother has always been a fool where his children are concerned._ Lady Genna had said that to Forley once, after innumerable courses at one of Lord Tywin’s name day feasts. At the time, Forley had chalked it up to an old woman ranting in her cups, but then Lord Tywin had given Ser Jaime the command, given leadership of a mighty host to a man who had never commanded anything more than the Kingsguard, and Forley had begun to wonder.

            _Not that it matters._ Forley sighed, discovered that he had gone from contemplating his wine to glaring at it, and angrily set the cup aside. _I made my opinions plain to Ser Jaime, and he ignored them, as was his privilege as commander of the army._ It didn’t make Forley feel any better, but there it was. “Do you think I’m a nervous old man?” he asked, to no one in particular.

            He may have spoken to no one in particular, but his son-in-law, being the good boy that he was, apparently felt compelled to answer. “We are in a precarious position here”

            Ser Forley nodded. It was true. Riverrun sat at the confluence of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, two great rivers that fed into the mighty Trident. For the seat of a Lord Paramount of the Realm, it was relatively small, but it didn’t need to be Winterfell to be a tough nut to crack. Any army besieging it had to reckon with those two rivers, and so their army, strong though it may have been, was split into three. _And Edmure Tully may be a fool, but he had enough wits to burn any bridges that might help us._ Three great camps ringed Riverrun, but they might as well have been worlds apart in a crisis, the only way to communicate being hastily constructed barges and whatever tiny boats had been saved from the river lords’ hurried torches. 

            _And I have the smallest camp. Two-thousand spears, two-thousand bows, and a smattering of freeriders commanded by a Tyroshi sellsword I trust half as far as I can throw him._ Ser Jaime may have been confident, as only the truly arrogant could be, but Forley could feel none of that confidence. _I had hoped that tossing that dead raven onto his food would shake him into taking things more seriously. Horden told me I was going about it the wrong way, but I was wroth and, yes, more than a little frightened._

It cost Forley nothing to admit to himself that he was a little frightened. He had come to love his wife over the years, and he still had a final daughter who had not been so much as betrothed, and he dearly wanted to toddle Elyana’s future children on his knees.

            “Have we had any fresh word from Ser Jaime?” he asked.

            Horden shook his head. “Not since the last time you asked, good-father.”

            Forley smiled. “You’re a good boy, Horden, to indulge your nervous father-in-law.”

            Horden shrugged. “Honestly, good-father, you have reason to be nervous. Ser Jaime should leave hunting down river lord raiding parties to other men, and he should’ve taken your advice the other day.”

            Forley chuckled, taking up his cup once more. “You did warn me not to be so dramatic.”

            “Yes, well, it was worth a try, as you said at the time.” Horden reached across the table, laid a hand on Forley’s arm. “There isn’t cause to worry yet, though. Last time, Ser Jaime was gone for a week; as it is, it’s only been, what, four days now?”

            Forley took a gulp of his wine, set the cup aside, the better to avoid glaring into its contents. “Yes, only four days, about to become five…” His eyes strayed to the Myrish spy glass that rested in its battered leather case on the table. Lord Tywin had had several them distributed to senior captains at the start of the campaign, and it was with great difficulty that he pulled his gaze away from it. The last time he had taken it out and looked at Riverrun, he had found himself witness to the awe-inspiring sight of a Riverrun guard pissing off the battlements. Such a thing was unlikely to make him feel better. “We’ll give it another day, then I want you to send out riders, no matter what Lord Brax has to say on the matter.”

            “I was going to do that anyways,” Horden replied, “but it’s good to have your approval.”

            Forley tore his gaze away from Riverrun, _when did I start glaring at it again, I don’t quite remember that,_ turned his eyes to his son-in-law. “You’re a good boy, Horden.”

            Horden blushed down at his food. “It’s good of you to say so, good-father.”

            Forley couldn’t help but smile. Horden’s own father had been... _not a good man._ The boy, _no, he’s a young man now, with two sons of his own,_ had always looked up to Forley in a way that Forley, a man with no sons of his own, had oft found difficult to handle. “Have you had any fresh word from Jocey?” That being, Forley’s eldest daughter, and Horden’s wife.

            Horden smiled, still looking down at his food. “I showed you the latest letter, good-father. The pregnancy goes well, and she eagerly awaits our return.”

            Forley took up his cup once more, rested it atop his belly as he leaned back into his chair to a chorus of creaks. “Hoping for a daughter this time?”

            “Yes,” Horden said, a smile in his voice. “Jocey so wants a little girl, and I confess I want one, too. In fact-”

            His son-in-law never got to finish his sentence. It would’ve been hard to, what with the sudden roar of horns from north of the Tumblestone. 

            Forley was already on his feet, his cup abandoned and forgotten on the ground. “What was that?”

            Horden was on his feet as well, a half-eaten sausage in his hand. “I could’ve sworn that was-”

            The horns came again, louder this time, and then the rumble, the thunder of thousands of horses charging at breakneck speed out of the trees. Forley snatched the spy glass off the table, tossed aside the case, brought the lens to his eye just in time to watch horsemen pour out of the trees and smash into the northern camp.

            Not that he needed to see it; he could already hear the shriek of steel and the screams of dying men. 

            “Damn him,” Forley snarled, snapping the spy glass shut. “Damn that arrogant ass and his miserable hide. **_TO ARMS!_** ”

            The trumpets cried, men staggered out of tents, shrugged on mail hauberks and jerkins of boiled leather and snatched up spears, archers strung their bows, and Forley’s squire strapped on the last bit of his suit of plate-and-mail, but none of mattered. By the time Forley had his men drawn up and in their ranks, the northern camp was completely overrun. Forley watched, spellbound, helpless, as spearmen attempted to form a shield wall, only for it to be shattered from behind by a sally out of Riverrun, the soldiers led by the dead weirwood banners of Tytos Blackwood. To the west, men were screaming, too, half-awake men-at-arms ridden down by screaming northmen charging behind banners of white suns, roaring giants, and galloping direwolves. Forley even had a front-row seat from atop his horse, spy-glass pressed to his eye hard enough to make the socket hurt, as he watched Lord Brax, clad in glittering plate, flail and die as a stone hurled from Riverrun capsized one of those rickety, leaky barges Forley had pressed Ser Jaime to rebuild and shore up. 

            None of it mattered. _Damn it._ It was over before the first sentry was ridden down. Forley took a final look through his glass, the better to watch screeching northmen hurl torches onto the half-built siege towers, snapped the glass closed, and handed it to his son-in-law to be put away. He took a deep breath, blew it out through clenched teeth, slammed a mailed fist into his armored thigh. _Damn it._

            _Gods damn it to the blackest of the seven hells…_

“Sound the retreat,” he said, before turning his horse and riding away.

            No one argued. Forley turned his back on the debacle as the trumpets blared the call to run away.

            _Damn it,_ he raged, silently, _quietly._  He was in command now, and it would not do for the rattled men standing in silent ranks all around him to hear their new commander ranting and raving like the Mad King himself. It helped that he was too depressed to feel much more than a dull, painful anger.

            Even when word came that that damned Tyroshi sellsword had struck his banner and taken Forley’s freeriders over to the northmen, all Forley could manage was a muttered _bugger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that campaign turned to shit in a hurry...
> 
> For the record, I literally have no basis for my characterization of Ser Forley Prester. He's literally a background extra in the books and doesn't even exist on the show, but what little hints we get whenever he pops up seem to suggest that he's nobody's fool and knows his business. Sadly, ser isn't a lord, and besides, since when did Jaime Lannister ever listen to good advice? At least before Brienne crashed into his life and got him to start his redemption arc, which we will not be abandoning in this fic, you hear that, show?! 
> 
> Anyhoo, not much to say about this chapter, besides that it was great good fun and I enjoyed writing the Battle of the Camps from the viewpoint of the losers, so we'll just carry on with the week!
> 
> Moving on! In Friday's episode, Ned receives two visitors during his walk, one expected and unwanted, the other wanted but unexpected. Stay tuned!


	49. Eddard

HE LIMPED THROUGH THE GODSWOOD, AND HIS GHOSTS LIMPED WITH HIM. 

            Rank had its privileges, Ned had learned, even in gaol. Had he not been _Eddard Stark, Lord Paramount of the North,_ he would’ve been left to die in the black cells, screaming and whimpering and raving. Instead, when his broken leg gave him a fever, he had been pulled out, dumped in a small but comfortable cell, tended to by maesters and visited every day by the Spider in the simpering, perfumed mask the eunuch wore by day. Of late, his lodgings had improved even more. He had a _room_ now, a room with a window, a soft mattress, and servants who every day came to change the rushes and empty the chamber pot. He never saw the servants, of course, but every day silent guards would fling open his door and glower behind him as he limped his way down to the godswood, and when he limped his way back, he would find fresh rushes on the floor, fresh sheets on the bed, fresh clothes to wear, a fresh chamber pot to shit in, and _almost_ decent food resting on the table beneath the window to eat.

            Through it all, his ghosts were Ned’s only company. He never saw the servants, and the guards never did naught but glare at spots just above his head, so Ned didn’t count them. Except for that one soul shattering day in the godswood, no living person spoke to him. Only his ghosts talked.

            _And gods, could they **talk.**_

            Robert’s ghost was the worst. In life as in death, Robert could never seem to shut his mouth. The ghost of Robert who haunted Ned’s waking hours _looked_ like the Robert Ned had known in their shared youths, tall and broad-shouldered and muscled like a maiden’s dream, the Demon of the Trident come again, but when the ghost spoke between gulps of wine, it had the voice of the Robert that had galloped into Winterfell’s courtyard what felt like ages ago, a voice worn thin by age and shot through with disappointment. _I always knew you were a bloody fool, Ned,_ the ghost would say, shaking its head, _but I never realized you were stupid, as well._ When Robert’s ghost wasn’t mocking Ned, it was reliving past glories and shared triumphs. The damn thing refought the Trident a half-a-hundred times, leaving Ned to wonder if his friend had always been so droll. _Mayhaps he always was, and I was just too blind to see it._ With hindsight, Ned could understand how he had fallen under Robert’s spell. Ned was, in his own eyes, clumsy and shy and halfway to ugly, while Robert Baratheon was tall and handsome and everyone’s friend. 

            “That was no excuse to be blind, though,” he would tell the ghost, his voice cracked and ragged with disuse. Sometimes, he worried that the guards thought him mad. Other times, he realized that the guards probably didn’t care. “The moment Lyanna came to me with her doubts, I should have gone to our father and had the betrothal broken.”

            The ghost would always glower at Ned then, its easy smile wiped clean from its face. _I never would’ve allowed that. She was the love of my life. I would have made her the happiest woman in the Seven Kingdoms._

            “And forced her to endure at least one fresh new bastard a year.”

            _Lyana would’ve understood._

            “She would’ve understood, aye, and in the end she would’ve hated you more than Cersei ever has.”

            _Liar,_ the ghost would snarl.

            _Liar…_

 _I called my brother a liar._ Ned liked Benjen’s ghost the best, mostly because it never spoke. Benjen’s ghost appeared young, as well, the trembling boy who gripped Ned’s arms with fingers like steel and told him that they needed to talk. _I called him a liar, and when he said he was going to the Wall, I only said **good.**_

 _Gods know how he ever forgave me._ _Mayhaps he didn’t._

_Mayhaps we just found silent companionship in our failures._

“You were supposed to protect Jon,” Ned would oft tell his little brother’s ghost. “I was going south, only the gods knew when I’d be back, and you were supposed to _protect him_ until I could return.”

            Benjen’s ghost never replied, merely shrank back in the shadows and managed to look away and glare, all at the same time, which Ned felt was fair.

            After all, it had been years since he’d been able to look his own little brother in the eye.

            The most tiresome ghosts were those of Brandon and Father. They always came together, and when they came, they did naught but berate Ned for his failures. Since they had their own failures easily as large and grotesque as Ned’s, it was easy to ignore them. Sometimes, when he was in a _mood,_ he’d toss Barbrey Dustin in Brandon’s face. Brandon would always splutter and stammer and screech to a halt, which was how Ned know that the ghost was not a _true_ ghost, as the singers had it, but nothing more than the whispers of Ned’s own regrets. _If you were truly Brandon, you would laugh and brag, as you laughed and bragged during the feasts at Harrenhal. Thank the gods Cat never had to endure **you.**_

            All the ghosts were little more than whispers of Ned’s own mind, he was sure by now, but there was one final ghost about whom he harbored doubts. This last ghost only came at night, when Ned had closed his eyes and drifted into something akin to sleep. She was always feverish, always smelled of blood and roses, and she was always angry.

            _You promised me, Ned. You promised me. Three promises you made, and somehow you’ve managed to either keep them in the worst possible way, or break them._

_**How could you…**_

And through it all, Ned ate, slept, shit, pissed, ate, slept once more, and once a day, the guards would throw open the door and Ned would go down to the godwood and limp in circles, while in the river lands, men and women and children died.

            _And at the center of it, my sons, the one of my body and the one of my promises, leaving broken and bleeding bodies of their own in their wake…_

The day was hot and humid, the sun high in the sky and the stink of King’s Landing clinging to the edges of his senses, when he limped to the laughable fraud of a weirwood tree and found Varys waiting for him. The scene was so like the last time Varys had come to wring out the greatest of Ned’s secrets that, for a moment, Ned was afraid he’d gone mad in truth. He blinked, looked away, looked back, found that Varys was still there, with his table piled high with food and drink and his two stools, one occupied, one empty.

            _One for him, and one for me…_

Varys stood at Ned’s approach, stood and bowed. “Lord Stark.”

            Ned came to a stop behind the empty stool and returned the bow, out of instinct as much as courtesy. “Lord Varys. Come to wring out more secrets? You’ll be disappointed, I’m afraid; I have none left.”

            Varys smiled, though, as usual, Ned couldn’t help but notice that the smile did not reach the eunuch’s eyes. “Oh, I very much doubt that, my lord. Alas, I am not here for secrets, or, at least, not in the way you think.” He gestured at the empty stool. “If your lordship would join me…? We have much to discuss, I’m afraid, and very little time in which to do it.”

            Just as the last time, Ned almost didn’t sit. Just as the last time, his limbs trembled with the urge to take his cane, _or, better, to take the stool,_ and beat Varys to death, _or at least to silence._

Just as the last time, Ned thought of Sansa, sighed, and sat. As Varys settled himself on his own stool, Ned took up the flagon on the table and poured himself some wine, setting aside the flagon without pouring Varys anything. It was childish, he knew, but childishness was all that was left to him these days. _Let the man pour his own bloody wine,_ he thought, sipping his own cup and grimacing at the taste.

            Varys sighed as he poured wine into his own cup. “Yes, I know. It’s quite a ghastly vintage, but King Robert was fond of gutter wine, and now that he’s gone no one touches it, which has the added benefit of enabling me to remove as many barrels as I wish without anyone bothering to notice.”

            Ned frowned as he piled his plate high with fresh bread and bacon and sliced fruit. “Does no one know you’re here?”

            “On the contrary, my lord,” Varys replied, filling his own plate with food, “our golden queen eagerly awaits my report of this very meeting. She approves of feeding you, of course, but not of giving you wine, or, at least, _good wine._ Our golden queen quaffs fine Dornish reds and the brightest Arbor golds by the flagon-full, she would notice if _those_ disappeared, but she cares not a fig what happens to the hundreds of barrels of brackish penny wine her late and unlamented husband poured down his gullet.” He paused in his labors, a slice of peach so fresh that it wept in his hand, and grimaced. “Begging my lord’s pardon, of course. I doubt you enjoy my speaking ill of King Robert.”

            Out of the corner of Ned’s eye, he glimpsed Robert’s youthful ghost, carrying a tree trunk on his shoulders as he made his rounds about the godswood. Robert had always bragged of his ability to take a tree trunk around a castle yard twenty times or more, even after he could no longer take a twig up a flight of stairs. Ned pushed the ghost to the back of his mind, concentrated on washing a bite of bacon down with a gulp of his old friend’s favorite piss-poor excuse for wine. “Never mind that,” he snapped, sounding angrier than he felt. “What does Cersei think you’re doing?”

            Varys shrugged. “Pumping you for information. Her Grace refuses to believe that you were not in league with the late King’s brothers.”

            _I could’ve been, if I’d had half the sense I was born with and none of the honor._ “I wasn’t. Renly wanted to be, and I wrote to Stannis, but it all came for naught.”

            Varys bowed his head. “As I’ve told her, _many times,_ but our golden queen possesses a rather suspicious mind. She desperately wants to send you to the rack, but her lord father forbade such questioning and so she must settle for this.”

            Ned shrugged, concentrated on his food. Just as the last time, Varys had brought good food, bloody beef and fresh bread and cool sliced fruit and freshly made butter that couldn’t have been in its jar for more than a few minutes. The fare served in Ned’s so-called _room_ was hearty, but plain, the bread oft indistinguishable from the trencher it was served beside; the soldier in Ned couldn’t help but dig into good fare when it was given to him. “Thank the gods for Lord Tywin, I suppose.” He popped a slice of apple into his mouth, chewed, swallowed. “You said we had much to discuss.” The last time Varys had come to him like this, the eunuch had left Ned bent over the table biting back tears and feeling as if his insides were hollowed out, an ice-cold wind of regret and fear and pain slicing into his soul. Ned had no desire to feel that way again, but he had less desire to draw the process out.

            _Best get it over and done with,_ he thought. _Over and done with, and then I can go back to my ghosts._

_My ghosts, as tiresome as they can be, never expect me to talk back…_

            Varys tittered. Ned winced at the sound. He missed the days when he had thought Varys’s titters were merely insipid, missed the days before he knew that the eunuch’s titters were as false as his soft hands and perfumed silks. “Straight to the point,” Varys said, raising his cup in salute, “as always. Very well. There has been a battle in the river lands, two, in fact, or at least two that concern us here and now, and your sons have won them. Resoundingly so, as a matter of fact. The Kingslayer is a prisoner, along with half-a-hundred western lords and knights, and the siege of Riverrun is broken.” Varys sipped his wine, set the cup aside. “Are you alright, my lord?”

            _No, I’m not._ Ned couldn’t believe it. _They did it. They **won.**_ His boys had charged into the lion’s den and come out victorious. They had _won._ He was on the ground. He didn’t remember sliding off the stool. His breath camp in ragged gasps, spots danced in his eyes, the world was spinning and spinning _and spinning_ and he couldn’t believe it, he didn’t know whether he should leap to his feet and dance like a drunken fool or curl into a ball and cry _or mayhaps something somewhere in the middle_ and he didn’t care, his boys had _won,_ his boys had _done it,_ maybe, _just maybe, everything is going to be alright…_

“My lord?” 

            Varys was kneeling beside him, his hand on Ned’s shoulder. The hand smelled of lilac, the scent strong enough to make Ned’s eyes water, _or at least, that was what he told himself._

_**They did it!**_

“I had hoped,” Varys said, pressing Ned’s wine cup into his trembling hand, “that the news would make my lord happy. It seemed like it might be a welcome break from how most of our conversations go.

            Ned shook his head, concentrated on gulping the wine, for all the good the effort did him. Half the cup seemed to leap out and onto his doublet, blood red rivers dribbling down the hand that was clutched to his chest. He tried to speak, failed, tried again, but in the end, all he could gasp out was, _“I am happy…”_

He glanced up to find that Varys looking unconvinced. “Then I should hate to see you upset, my lord.”

            Ned smiled, though he had not the faintest idea why. _“Jon comes by his brooding honestly…”_ He gulped the last of his wine, was pleased to discover that most of it ended up in his mouth. _“How are my...my…”_

Varys sighed as he moved to a handy tree root and settled himself across the grass from Ned. “Alive, unhurt, and covered in glory. Your lords hail young Robb as a military genius, and it was the Bastard of Winterfell himself who defeated the Kingslayer and clapped him in irons. It will make quite the song someday, I imagine.”

            Ned’s smile was real now, genuine, _understandable._ “Aye, I imagine it will.” He could almost hear it, a roaring, bombastic tale about the Young Wolf, the Bastard of Winterfell, and the smiling, arrogant Kingslayer whom they laid so low. Mayhaps the singers would even work in “The Rains of Castamere,” which, Ned felt, would be fitting. 

            _And who, are you, the proud lord said, that I should bow so low?_

_The White Wolf and the Grey, that’s who…_

_That’s who…_

Then Varys’s words about Jon finally filtered their way through Ned’s shock, and his joy fled in an instant, replaced by a memory of blood and roses and a sister’s pleas. “You said...you said Jon defeated the Kingslayer…?”

            “I’m afraid so. The tale my man told me was...shall we say... _strange._ Young... _Jon,_ we’ll stick with that name for the nonce, wore a half-helm that covered everything save for his eyes and his jaw. Ser Jaime took one look at him, went white as a sheet, and dropped his sword on the spot.”

            _Promise me, Ned…_

_Promise me…_

_“No…”_

“You see the problem, my lord; I’m glad of that. Right now, Ser Jaime is sitting in a cell in Riverrun, no doubt trying to grapple with how a ghost could rise from the waters of the Ruby Ford to strike him down.” Varys tilted his cup, the better to grimace down into its depths. “You know the Lady Genna?”

            Ned wracked his brain for far longer than should have been necessary. “Genna...Lannister? Tywin Lannister’s sister?”

            “The very one. She once told me that Ser Jaime was the stupidest Lannister, and that may be true, but he’s not an idiot, and he’s not blind. The cat is peeking out of the bag, Lord Stark, assuming it hasn’t already leapt into the light.”

            “Does...does Cersei know? About the battles and…and…” He couldn’t say it.

            Fortunately, he didn’t have to. “As for the former, now, not as yet, and as for the latter, seeing as my head is not currently on a spike, I presume not. I know because of...shall we say... _unconventional means,_ but I’ve decided to wait until the bird comes from Lord Tywin. I shall have to feign surprise and astonishment, but somehow, I imagine that I’ll manage.”

            Ned looked up from where his legs were splayed on the ground. “Yes, Lord Spider, I quite imagine that you will. Why the delay?”

            Varys set his cup aside, and when he leaned forward, his eyes were hard and cold and earnest as death. 

            “Because we need _time,_ my lord. We need you and your sons’ army back in the North, with Moat Cailin between _Jon_ and the Lannisters. Much of the Reach are still dragons at heart, Dorne hungers for vengeance, the Vale and the river lands are still littered with Targaryen loyalists, and lest we forget, Lord Tywin has already walked over the broken and shattered bodies of children _once_ when he saw his chance to put Lannister blood in a royal dynasty, and I don’t doubt he’ll do it again. To be perfectly honest, my lord,” and here, Varys paused, looked uncomfortable, concerned, _frightened,_ three emotions Ned would have been less shocked to see on a particularly dim goat, “ _this is all happening too soon._ The realm stands on a precipice, on the cusp of a bloodletting the likes of which hasn’t been seen since the dragons danced, _and it is all happening **too soon.**_ ”

            Ned blinked, almost gasped as tumblers clicked in his mind. “You mean to bring back the Targaryens.”

            Varys shrugged, the conflicting, roiling mass of emotions gone and replaced with his usual slim smile, the one that spoke of all the things he knew that you did not. “In a manner of speaking. At the very least, I would keep the Iron Throne away from Lannisters and Baratheons. As I said before, _I serve the realm,_ and none of them would serve _that._ ”

            Ned didn’t know whether he believed that. _Gods, I don’t know **what** to believe. _“What...what would you have me do?”

            “The right thing, as you have always _tried_ to do.”

            Ned looked away. “Tried, and failed…”

            “True enough, but you’ve always _tried,_ which is more than most men could say. It’s one of the things I admire about you, my lord.”

            A chuckle clawed its way past the jagged lump in Ned’s throat. “Don’t jest with me, Varys.”

            “I can assure you, my lord, I am doing nothing of the sort.” Varys stood, brushed bits of grass and dirt from his delicate silks. “Soon, no more than a few weeks, you will be given the chance to confess your many treasons and take the black, in exchange for your life. I would advise you to take the offer.”

            Ned looked up at Varys. “You would have me lie.”

            Varys shrugged. “Yes, I would, but what would be one more lie to keep a solemn oath? What would one more lie matter, if it could save your family? Speaking of which…” Varys turned, clasped his hands, and bowed to someone standing behind Ned. “Lady Sansa. So good of you to join us.”

            Ned didn’t know what stunned him more, the sudden shift in Varys’s tone, or the fact that his eldest daughter’s voice answered.

            “Lord Varys. I was brought here to see you, though I can’t imagine why…?”

            Varys unclasped his hands, gestured towards where Ned was still sitting in a heap on the ground. “Why, to see your lord father, of course.”

            There was a gasp, like that of a small child, _which can’t be right, Sansa is almost a woman grown now,_ and then Ned was no longer alone, his daughter had hurled herself into his arms and she was holding him tight, just as she would when she was small and convinced that some monster out of the stories and songs she loved so much even then was hiding under her bed. She was holding him and she was sobbing and she was trying to speak, but he didn’t care, tears poured from his eyes and he wrapped his arms around her, just as he would when she was a child, _just as he would when he came to chase the monsters away…_

“I will leave you to your meal,” Varys said, sounding as if he was whispering down a long tunnel. “You haven’t much time, I’m afraid, but I pray that you will use that time... _wisely…_ ” And then he was gone, and Ned was left to hold his daughter.

            _“I’m sorry, Papa,”_ Sansa was saying, between wracking sobs that left her voice sounding cracked and small. _“I’m so, so sorry, I’m sorry, please forgive me, I-”_

He shook his head, held her close, _held her tight. “Shh, it’s alright, everything’s going to be alright…”_

_“But Papa, you don’t understand, I’m sorry, I didn’t...I didn’t understand...I’m so sorry...I just want to go **home** …the Queen is kind and gentle and looks after me but I’m **scared** and I’m **sorry** and I want to go **home** …”_

_“We’ll all be home soon, I promise…_

_“I promise…”_

And for a moment, holding his daughter as she cried, he almost believed it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd think Ned would've learned not to make promises by now...
> 
> Real quick, before we continue, if you have any angry objections to my sympathetic portrayal of Sansa, I've heard them. Like, trust me, I've heard them all. At this point, all I can say is that this is my story, and I'm going to tell it the only way I can. 
> 
> Don't be afraid to make suggestions or offer input, though; you guys are pretty goddamn smart, and I've ruthlessly stolen quite a few of your ideas. It's just that we've been backwards and forwards over the Sansa thing, and at this point, you're just going to have to trust me.
> 
> What else, what else...oh! We're moving into the climax/conclusion of this part of the story. Like I said, I am going to break it into parts, for reasons we've gone over before. I'm still not a hundred percent decided on how structure the next bit, because several of you raised objections to my initial idea and, well, they were good objections, and now I'm doubting myself. I mean, I know about where I want to start the second part, and I'm still inclined towards trying to make this a three-part series, but you've made me question my ideas for how to structure it, so keep chiming in with your thoughts on that front. 
> 
> As for the chapter itself, it's a long one, but I really like how it turned out. There's a lot going on, and I wanted to make sure I got it right, not least because I've never been completely happy with how this all played out in the book. The first book has some...early installment weirdness going on, you know? But more on that later.
> 
> Hey, real quick, opinion poll: Does anyone believe that The Winds of Winter will ever come out? Because I've just about lost all hope.
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, Edmure interrupts Roslin and Catelyn at prayer. Stay tuned!


	50. Catelyn

SHE WOKE IN A CHAIR, WITH A PAIN IN HER NECK AND THE SMELL OF DEATH IN HER NOSTRILS. She pulled herself up in the chair, barely managing to catch the open book in her lap before it fell to the floor. She tried to remember falling asleep, but couldn’t; the last thing she could recall was sitting in this very chair, reading to her father from a book of children’s fairy tales. Her mouth felt as dry as Dorne, and when she pressed her fingers to its corners, she discovered the slickness of dried spittle. _Gods,_ she hoped, as she closed the book and set it aside before rubbing the spittle from her lips with her sleeve, _I pray I was not snoring._ It was then that she realized what she was doing with her sleeve, and bit down on a curse, thankful that her son was not there to see her. _It would serve me right, after all the times I smacked his own sleeve away from his nose when he was but a child._

            “My lady,” a voice whispered, out of the gloom. Her father’s room was dark and cool, a fire roaring in the hearth, and the voice was so unexpected that Catelyn had to clap a hand to her mouth to prevent herself from letting out a yelp. 

            The speaker leapt out of the gloom, or so it seemed to Catleyn’s sleep-clouded eyes, kneeling before her and pressing a handkerchief into her hands. “Apologies, my lady,” the voice said, kind and gentle and old, “a thousand apologies, I did not mean to startle you so, by the Seven, I did not even mean to wake you.”

            Catelyn blinked away the last remnants of her unexpected sleep, her surroundings becoming clearer as the murk cleared away. As it did, she realized that it was not so dark as she had thought. The first wisps of dawn were slicing in through unshuttered windows, making her father’s room look almost soft and warm. One of those shafts of light was resting upon the face of the man speaking to her, a face old and wrinkled and kind, framed in a neat, frost-white beard.

            Catelyn smiled as she pulled herself straight, her spine stiffening of its own accord, conditioned by a lifetime of etiquette lessons and the rods stern-faced septas used to make them stick. “Maester Vyman,” she said, fighting against the urge to frown at her dry, cracked voice as she used the handkerchief to wipe her mouth and face. “It’s quite alright; after all, I did not mean to fall asleep.”

            Maester Vyman returned her smile as he rose and gave her shallow bow. “Stress and heartache can sap the strength of the strongest among us, my lady; you must not think ill of yourself.”

            Catelyn shrugged, finished with the handkerchief, handed it back to the maester. “So long as I was not snoring, Vyman, I will take your advice.”

            The old man’s eyes glittered, a silent laugh making the tips of his mouth quiver. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you could be talking about, my lady.”

            “You’re a prince among men, Vyman,” Catelyn said, before her eyes, now clear and awake, drifted over to her father’s bed, the sight curdling her smile and making her heart turn cold as ice as it plummeted down through the floor. “I don’t…” She swallowed, reached for the table beside her chair, found a cup of what she hoped was water. She took a gulp, discovered that it was, indeed, water, cool and fresh, and drank once more before she spoke. “Who are all these people? My...my father…”

            Maester Vyman spread his hands, palms out, he voice still kind, his face calm and relaxed. “No, my lady, your lord father still lives.” He half-turned, waved at the people who stood around her father’s bed, their heads bowed. There were four of them, a tall, strong-looking young man with broad shoulders, a grim-faced septa, and two maids young enough to make Catelyn feel impossibly old. “They’re just here for Lord Hoster’s morning bath, my lady.”

            Catelyn nodded, wheels clicking into place in her mind. _Ah. That makes sense._ The strong young man was obviously there to carry Father to his bath where the septa would wash him, leaving the two maids to change Father’s sheets and tidy the room while he was being bathed. For a moment, Catelyn was tempted to stay, _to supervise._ She had no doubt that Vyman and his assistants were perfectly capable of the task before them, _they had obviously done it before,_ but the urge to...the urge to... _the urge to **meddle,** don’t try to pretend it’s something that it isn’t, Cat, _was almost overpowering, a physical _need_ to be there with her father, _to be there for him._ Just like that, the anger welled up inside, _the fury, how could they have kept this from me,_ but then her eyes fell on her father, sound asleep, a blade of dawn turning his gnarled, claw-like hand pink where it rested atop his blanket.

            Unbidden, unwanted, tears burned in her eyes. Her father had been a tall man, broad, a strong, proud man with bright blue eyes and brown hair. She remembered him as a restless man, full of boundless energy, making his endless circuits around and through his domains, a fine soldier who had fought bravely and honorably during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Her vision was misting, _clouding,_ but she forced one final glance, _and…_

_He’s so **old,** so **sick** …shrunken and small, his beard gone bone white and his hands trembling, his mind wandering, as like to be twenty years in the past as in the here and now…_

Suddenly, she wanted to be anywhere but in that room. She wiped her eyes, gave Maester Vyman and his assistants a trembling curtsy. “A bath sounds fine,” she said, praying that her voice did not shake as much in truth as it did in her ears. “For myself as for my lord father.”

            Maester Vyman nodded, clasping his hands at his waist. “Of course, my lady, and if you will permit to say, some food, mayhaps some sleep in something other than a chair, would do wonders.”

            _As if I could sleep, at a time like this._ Great victories had been won, but the war ground on. Naught but rumors came from Highgarden and Dragonstone, silence thundered from her sister in the Vale, no word as yet had come from Lord Bolton, and the shattered remnants of the Kingslayer’s vanquished host still lurked here and there throughout the river lands. 

            Instead of saying all of that, though, she smiled. _A lady’s armor is her courtesy._ “I shall do my best, maester.” She gave a final curtsey, bowed her head to the servants, and made for the door.

            Her hand was on the handle when she paused, turned back. “Maester Vyman?”

            “My lady?”

            “Is my son breaking his fast yet?”

            Maester Vyman’s face twisted into a frown. “Long since, my lady. We received reports of Lannister remnants hiding in a holdfast a day’s ride to the west, and Lord Robert and Ser Brynden rode out before first light to roust them out.”

            Somehow, Catleyn’s heart fell even further; she could only pray her dismay did not show on her face. “How brave. Good day, maester.”

            “Good day, my lady.”

            Time passed, how much, she didn’t know, couldn’t begin to guess. She must have wandered, she knew, _assumed,_ but where and how, she hadn’t the faintest idea. It was all a haze, a blur of unshed tears burning in her eyes. It was foolish, she knew, to feel so upset, so aghast, at the idea that the war had somehow not been ended by her son’s crushing victories. Had not her husband told her of how it had taken _weeks_ to round up the last bits and pieces of Prince Rhaegar’s host after the Trident? Had not broken men, the flotsam and jetsam of Robert Baratheon’s lightning campaigns in the storm lands and the Reach, plagued both regions for years after the war was done? _Had not-_

“I did not expect to see you here, sister.”

            Catelyn almost leapt clear out of her skin, as much at the shock of where she was as at the shock of her brother’s voice. She was standing on the ramparts of Riverrun, looking at towards the dawn, watching the sun rise above the horizon and spread its light upon the detritus of the Kingslayer’s siege and the living, breathing camps of her son’s host. The area around the castle of her birth was a beehive of activity, soldiers sparring and eating and doing chores, messengers riding in and out, sentries leaning on spears, and smallfolk moving in steady streams out towards what remained of their homes and their fields. Saws and hammers added their voices to the din as men worked to disassemble the burnt out wrecks of the Kingslayer’s half-built siege engines, and among the camps that belonged to the river lords, septons were setting up makeshift altars for morning services, their locations marked by milling crowds of bareheaded men.

            She saw all of that in an instant, for all that she had been blind to it just a moment before. Catelyn wondered what she had been looking at, before her brother stepped up to a spot beside her and spoke, for she certainly hadn’t been looking at the camps or the men, not even at the view, as breathtaking as it was, no matter how the scars of the broken siege marred it.

            _I hope I wasn’t crying…_

She took a deep, calming breath, turned to face her brother. “I could say the same for you, Edmure.”

            “Well,” Edmure Tully said, turning away from the view to face her in his turn, “be that as it may, I’m glad I found you. I feel sorry for the maid I found cleaning your room, though.”

            Catelyn frowned. “Oh?”

            Edmure shrugged as he crooked an elbow and leaned it upon the lip of the battlements. “I just told her to go and find you and ask you to join me on this very spot, as it happens.”

            _Oh, poor thing._ Catelyn couldn’t remember the name of the girl who had been assigned the task of attending to her needs, but she liked the girl well enough. “Well, little brother, chalk it up to the will of the Seven. Here I am.”

            Edmure sighed, shook his head. “I’m not _little_ anymore, Cat.”

            “You’ll always be _little_ to me, Edmure.” It was somewhat unfair, Catelyn knew, but true nonetheless. She still found it hard to square the boy she had left behind when she’d gone north, Robb in her arms, with the tall, stocky young man who leaned upon a rampart before her. He had all the marks of a man grown, from his deep blue eyes to his fiery red beard. He was even a full head taller than her now, no longer looking up at her chin. 

            _And yet...some of the boy remains,_ she could not help but think. _There is a softness in those eyes, and he gives off the impression of a boy stomping around in his father’s boots, attempting to wear shoes he suspects, deep down, that he can never fill._ And the moods of boyhood remained; Edmure had tried to be gracious when Robb’s army saved Riverrun and freed Edmure from his fetters, and yet Catelyn couldn’t help but notice that her little brother walked around in a cloud of sulk that he couldn’t quite seem to shake.

            To his credit, Edmure answered her words with a smile and a soft, lighthearted laugh. “How is the saying goes? No man is a hero to his sister?”

            _And since when did you become a hero, brother?_ Catelyn pushed the thought away; it would not serve to think it, much less utter it. “Something of the sort,” she said instead. “What is you want of me, brother?”

            Edmure’s smile faded from his eyes, though, for reasons Catelyn couldn’t quite grasp, he kept its remnants plastered to his face. “Many things, starting with that son of yours.”

            _Oh,_ Catelyn thought, her shoulders slumping. _This again._ “If it’s about chasing scattered lions from the river lands, Robb has the matter well in hand, as you well know.”

            Catelyn spoke in a calm, kind tone, but somehow, her words wiped the last bits of a smile from her brother’s face, and he spoke, he sounded like a moody, brooding youth. “So he says, and yet my lords remain here, instead of released to go home and free their lands.”

            Catelyn somehow resisted the urge to grind her teeth. “We _need_ them here, Edmure. We need an _army_ here, not melting away like snow in spring. And, need I remind you, Robb is taking steps to clear the river lands. Lord Karstark has taken a force to clear Pinkmaiden, Lord Vance and the Greatjon had gone for Wayfarer’s Rest, the peasant levies have been released to return to their fields,” _at least, those who didn’t desert after your disastrous battles to do just that,_ she thought, but would never say, “and-”

            Edmure waved a hand, as if to swat her words away, seemingly heedless of the anger Catelyn could feel warming her cheeks. “Yes, and your husband’s bastard has gone to take back Raventree Hall and Stone Hedge. I’m aware.”

            “And he’s already retaken Stone Hedge,” Catelyn pointed out, rankling at fact that her brother was forcing into a position to defend her... _defend her...for the love of the Seven just say his damned name, girl!_

            “And yet, Lord Bracken and most of his men remain here, when they should’ve been allowed to retake their own seat.”

            “Many of them did,” Catelyn pointed out. “Ned’s...my son’s brother is leading a force made from equal parts northmen, Blackwoods, and Brackens.”

            Edmure scoffed. “And a fine time the bastard will have managing _that_ lot.”

            Catelyn could feel the hairs rise on the back of her neck, not in fear, _but in fury._ It was a strange sensation, the urge to stand up for... _dammit girl, for..._ Lady Roslin’s husband, and she wasn’t particularly enjoying it. The jarring reality of it made her head spin. “That _bastard,_ ” and for the first time since she had seen the boy cradled in Ned’s arms, the word was difficult to say, _almost painful,_ “is an anointed knight, Edmure, or have you forgotten your courtesies.”

            Edmure rolled his eyes. “You first, sister. I haven’t noticed that you haven’t said his name.”

            _He defeated the Kingslayer,_ she thought, _a task you couldn’t accomplish with an entire army at your back._ “I’m not the future Lord of Riverrun, brother.” It was a cowardly cop-out, she knew, but it had the benefit of being true. She was a woman, she was _supposed_ to be petty and spiteful; the future Lord Paramount of the Trident should, she felt, be made of sterner stuff. 

            Edmure sighed. “You’re probably right...still, it rankles, to see the bastard my brother-in-law foisted on my sister rise so high, while my own nephew ignores every word I say.”

            _If he ignored every word you said, he wouldn’t be sending out swords to clear your future lands of Lannisters. To be sure, most of those men have been order to return once their tasks are done, and the lands being cleared are those that just so happen to, so long as they’re in enemy hands, menace Riverrun, but he’s doing a little of what you want._ “You exaggerate a little, don’t you think?”

            “Do I?” Edmure shrugged. “Mayhaps I do...and if my own sister stands against me, mayhaps I’m in the wrong.” Catelyn resisted the urge to leap back from her brother, for fear of a lightning bolt from the heavens. “Still...there is another matter I must speak to you about…”

            Catelyn bit down on a groan of relief; her brother’s bleatings about _the shame of Lannisters on Tully lands_ had grown tiresome of late. _You’d never know that he had just been freed from captivity._ “Oh?”

            Edmure met her gaze with one of his own, one blazing with an intensity that she never would have believed her brother was capable of. “It’s about... _Ser Jon,_ Cat.”

            Catelyn was near overwhelmed by a sudden sensation of the ground opening up beneath her feet, a sensation made all the more disorienting by being unexpected and not the least bit understood. _What…?_ “I beg your pardon…?”

            “Yes,” Edmure said, the intense expression giving way to something Catelyn couldn’t make heads or tails of, “I imagine I will, before it’s all done...Cat, I must ask you a question, and I need you to answer honestly, no matter how confusing it may seem.”

            Catelyn felt her face twist into something halfway between a frown of anger and a gasp of confusion, ground growing ever more unsteady beneath her feet. “Edmure, I’m not sure I grasp where you’re going with this…”

            “Neither am I, Cat, still...how sure are you that... _Ser Jon_...is Ned’s son?”

            Catelyn reared back, stunned, feeling as if her brother had slapped her across the face. He might as well have; the effect was much the same, and how would anyone feel, to have one of their innermost desires flung back in their face by someone who couldn’t possibly have known? _I begged Ned,_ she remembered, _begged and pleaded. **Is Jon actually Brandon’s son?** she’d asked him, a year after her husband had reacted so strongly, **so badly,** to her guess about Ashara Dayne. **If you think to spare me from some excess of gallantry, don’t; in some ways, I knew Brandon better than you. Just tell me, and all will be forgiven.**_ It had made so much _sense,_ after all, for Ned to find a bastard of Brandon’s, claim the boy for his own, and bring him back to Winterfell. It was just the kind of somewhat silly, _borderline stupid,_ thing Ned would do. Even keeping the secret long past the point of sense was just so... _so Ned,_ that Catelyn had grasped at it like she was drowning.

            _But no, he denied it. **No, Cat, Jon is not my brother’s son. Don’t ask me about this again, I beg of you, for all our sakes.**_

            **_For all our sakes…_**

“Of course he is,” Catelyn replied, her voice sounding like it was coming from far away, as if someone else was speaking the words that were coming out of her own mouth. “What could possibly make you think otherwise?”

            Edmure looked away, towards the sun as it spilled over the horizon. “It’s just...Uncle came to see me, yesterday. Uncle, Lord Blackwood, Lord Bracken...other men, too, all of them men who either fought at the Trident, attended the Tourney at Harrenhal, or both. And then there’s the Kingslayer, the way he folded in the Whispering Wood, the way he’s been meek as a lamb ever since...he wants to speak to you, you know.”

            “So I’ve been told,” Catelyn admitted, not that she had any intention of honoring the request. She was too afraid of her reaction, too afraid that she would take one look at him, see Bran’s broken body, see Bran’s pale, stricken face, and kill the Kingslayer with her own bare, still only half-healed hands. _The knife was so sharp, so cold, until my blood made it warm…_ “What of it?” she finally choked out.

            “I think you should speak to him. I really do, Cat, because if the things Uncle said...if Uncle is well and truly onto something…”

            Cat shook her head, eyes closed tight upon white hot tears of anger and rage and confusion. The ground yawned open beneath her feet, and her head was spinning. “I don’t know what nonsense you think you’ve heard, brother, but nonsense it is. What kind of man would claim a bastard that wasn’t his, when his own wife begged him to do so over and over?”

            She felt the shrug rather than saw it. “I don’t know, Cat. I don’t really believe it myself, it’s too...too... _too absurd…_ ”

            “What’s too absurd, Ser Edmure?”

            Catelyn’s eyes snapped open, and when she saw Lady Roslin standing there, flanked by her handmaids, rising from a curtsy, she almost broke into hysterics from sheer relief. “Roslin,” Catelyn all but gasped, marching away from her brother and taking the girl into a forceful hug, kissing her on _both_ cheeks, “what a delight to see you.”

            Roslin, for her part, was both smiling and blinking, her face a mix of joy and abject confusion. “Lady Stark, I...are you alright, Lady Stark?”

            Catelyn cupped the girl’s face in her hands. _You’re so lovely, you know that? Lovely and kind and sweet...so like Sansa...so like me, once upon a time…_ “Oh,” Catelyn said, waving a hand towards her brother, “you know how tiresome brothers can be.” She released Roslin’s face, the better to grasp both of the girl’s hands. “You came just in time, my dear.”

            Roslin’s smile grew, her confusion fading she visibly processed Catelyn’s excuse. “Well, then I’m glad I came. A guard said he saw you come up here, and I was wondering if you would do me the honor of attending morning services with me.” The girl’s eyes flicked to Edmure, and then she leaned in close, her voice dropped to a whisper. “ _And...I wondered if I might...ask you a few...um...questions...if you would…”_

Catelyn leaned in and whispered back. _“Of course.”_ She could well imagine what things a newly married girl might want to talk to the mother of five children about, as conflicted as Catelyn remained about... _about..._ about Robb’s brother, she felt no such conflict about the prospect of... _other things. More or less…_ She leaned back, spoke in a normal voice once more. “And as for holy services, the honor, my lady, would be all mine.” She turned back to her brother, curtsied. “Brother, I bid you good day.” She gave him no chance to reply, just turned away, took Roslin’s arm in her own, and all but dragged the girl down off the battlements and into the heart of Riverrun, making a beeline for the castle sept.

            Once she was sure she was free and clear of her brother, Catelyn breathed a sigh of relief, her vision clearing as she slowed her pace, still arm-in-arm with... _with..._ the Lady Roslin Snow. “Have you had fresh word of your... _husband?_ ”

            If she noticed the hitch in Catelyn voice, the girl had the grace to ignore it. “Only what you’ve heard, Lady Stark, that Stone Hedge is freed and he is riding for Raventree Hall. Jon said he had reason to believe that the Lannisters didn’t leave a garrison there, so he expected to hoist the Blackwood banner in a few days and return in a fortnight.” As she spoke, the Lady Roslin’s face turned a peculiar shade of pink, and a husky air tinted the edge of her voice.

            Catelyn almost burst out laughing. _Ah, to be young again._ “No doubt you eagerly await his return.”

            Roslin turned an even brighter shade of pink, and coughed into her free hand. “I am, Lady Stark, if only to know that he’s safe and unharmed.”

            Catelyn giggled like a girl. Her head was no longer spinning, but it felt light, _almost faint,_ and she had a strange feeling that the hole that had opened beneath her up on the battlements was lurking in her wake, hiding in shadows just out of sight. “Of course, my dear, and please, call me Catelyn. Just because your... _husband,_ calls me _Lady Stark,_ doesn’t mean you have to.”

            Roslin’s stride faltered, but only for a moment. “If...if it please you, my lady.”

            Catelyn swatted the girl on the arm. “ _Catelyn,_ I said, _Catelyn._ ”

            “Very well... _Catelyn._ Are you...are you sure you’re alright?”

            Catelyn threw back her head and smiled, tall and proud and carefree. “Of course.”

            “Because it looked as if Ser Edmure had said something to upset you…”

            “Perish the thought, Roslin.”

            “What was he saying?”

            “Oh,” Catelyn said, as they rounded a corner and caught sight of the castle sept, the septon himself standing at the door, bowing and smiling as worshippers from high to low filtered past him, “just rumors and complaints, nothing important.”

            _No, nothing important at all…_

_Right…?_

_Ned…?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cat is peeking out of the bag, indeed...
> 
> So, fun fact, this is... *checks clock* ...a full hour-and-change late (by Texas time) for one reason and one reason only: I plum forgot about posting. Like, I was so stoked for this chapter, that I guess I just...thought I'd posted it, or some such bullshit. But I hadn't, so here I am, half-asleep, posting before I stagger off to bed.
> 
> Do I turn in my college degree here, or somewhere else...?
> 
> Thus, this is a drive-by posting, and it hasn't been properly proofread, so, apologies for that, but before I go, one thing: Have any river lords outright told Edmure that Jon is Rhaegar's kid? No, but Jaime's reaction in the Whispering Wood got some of them thinking, and while thinking they noticed some weird things about Jon, so they went and talked to Edmure about it, and now everyone is thinking, and the Kingslayer has been acting all...un-Kingslayer-like, and everyone's thinking it's weird. It's a good thing that more Darrys didn't survive Robert's Rebellion, because then the cat would really be out of the bag, instead of everyone standing around the bag, wondering just what the hell is going on.
> 
> Moving on! In Wednesday's episode, which I promise to not forget about, I'm going to try my hand at some Tyrion snark! Stay tuned!


	51. Tyrion

HE SAT IN HIS TENT, DRANK HIS WINE, AND THOUGHT. 

            Another man, a stranger, perhaps, would have called it _brooding,_ and he would’ve been hard-pressed to dispute the charge. After all, most of the hallmarks of brooding were there. There was no fire, no braziers, just a few candles burning low in pools of wax, leaving the tent shrouding in flickering darkness and shadows that shuddered and danced across canvas lit from without by a dull, shimmering glow, the product of at least a dozen fires, themselves burning low as the night dragged ever on. He himself slumped in a chair too big for him, his twisted legs splayed out on the seat, his feet jutting out into the glimmering darkness. He wasn’t even sipping from a cup, instead gulping his wine straight from a half-full skin that rested in his lap. That had an explanation, sure, seeing as, with one arm in a sling, he found it difficult to deal with both flagon and cup without assistance, but that very sling no doubt only added to the picture of _brooding._

            But no, Tyrion Lannister was not _brooding_. On the contrary, he was _thinking._ Brooding had never served anyone, least of all him, and besides, after seeing the Bastard of Winterfell brood in all his comely glory, he would never dare to try. _I’m ugly enough as it is,_ he thought, squirting more wine into his mouth, _gods forbid I should ever try my hand at a skill a mere boy has already mastered so well._

The memory made him chuckle, grim and low. There had been a part of him that had envied Jon Snow, on that long, brisk ride to the Wall. How could he not? The boy was nearly everything Tyrion wasn’t, for all that he steadfastly refused to see it. But at the end of the day, the Bastard of Winterfell was being packed off to walk the Wall until he died, and Tyrion was returning south to wine, women, but never song. _Songs require singers, and bugger that._ The equation had brought Tyrion a measure of peace, for all that that peace shamed him, _just a little._ But now…

            _But now Jon Snow rides at the head of a victorious army beside his gallant brother, fresh from defeating the Kingslayer himself in single combat._ Tyrion frowned at his wineskin. _And what are we to make of **that,** I wonder. Bad enough for Jaime to lose his army, but to be beaten down by a boy of eight-and-ten? Father said it best: **Madness, pure madness.**_

            _And here I am, the only son left to Tywin Fucking Lannister._ Tyrion couldn’t help but smile. _I swear, I could **feel** that curdle in Father’s gut, for all the good it’ll do me._

            He sighed, looked up from his wineskin, watching the shadows dance and swirl around the tent. “Doesn’t seem quite fair, does it?” he asked them. They didn’t answer, of course, but it had seemed worth the effort. _It’s not like the gods ever answered me; might as well try the shadows._

            “Make up your mind.”

            Tyrion jerked up, mismatched eyes flying wide as he turned his gaze from the swirling shadows towards his bed. Shae was there, sitting up, rubbing her eyes with one hand while she held a sheet to her chest with the other. _Gods, she’s beautiful._ And she was, short, slim, and pretty, with dark hair and big dark eyes that dripped with equal parts innocence and wickedness, leaving Tyrion to wonder which was feigned and which was honest. _Mayhaps both._ He took another look at her, cocked his head, and grinned, grateful for the darkness that masked his wretchedness. _Though now, she looks mostly worn and irked._ “What was that, my dear?”

            Shae sighed and shot him a _look._ “Make up your mind,” she said, in her vague accent, the one that could have been born anywhere, equal parts sensual and mysterious. “Either sit there and get drunk in silence or pass the wine and talk to me.”

            “I thought I’d let you sleep and talk to the shadows instead.”

            She looked to the shadows. “And have the shadows told you anything?”

            He sighed, slumping deeper into the chair. “They have not; they’re silent as the Seven, at least where I’m concerned.”

            The sheets rustled and the bed creaked as she laid back against the pillows and shifted and shimmied until she was sitting up, watching the shadows with him. “They say that in Asshai, there are men who can make the shadows talk.”

            “True, but only after dark and monstrous rituals.”

            “You could always give such rituals a try.”

            He considered the prospect. “You have a point...what do you think shadows would have to say?”

            “More than the gods, I imagine,” she replied, shoving a lock of hair from her eyes.

            “Mayhaps...I’d probably have to sacrifice a virgin, though.”

            She laughed, soft and sweet. _Another lie,_ he wondered, _or am I seeing a bit of truth, here in the darkness?_ “Good luck finding one of _those._ ”

            He squirted more wine into his mouth, rolled it around on his tongue along with the notion. “I could always try the pages, or mayhaps the squires. I can’t imagine why it has to be a _girl_ virgin.”

            “You’d have to kidnap a page; the squires would lie right up until the moment you slit their throats and tossed them into the fires.”

            He frowned. “Why would there have to be fires?”

            She rolled her eyes, and when she spoke, her tone all but screamed, _Why must men be so **stupid.**_ “There’s _always_ a fire. Surely you’ve read enough books to know _that._ ”

            “Where did you get the notion that I would go around reading books of witchcraft and sorcery?”

            To that, she only responded with yet another _look._

            He held up his hands in surrender. “Fair enough.” He sighed, leaned over, and handed her the wineskin. “Do you know your letters, Shae?”

            She squirted wine into her mouth, grimaced as she swallowed. “Why would I need _those?_ What good would it serve?” She held the wine out to him. “And while we’re talking about _good,_ surely being the kept whore of a lord should come with better wine.”

            To that, he could only shrug as he took the wineskin back and had a gulp. “What, pray tell, would you know about _good wine?_ ”

            “More than you.”

            _For some reason, I don’t doubt it._ Tyrion loved his wine and knew a fair bit about what was good and what was bad, but he hadn’t been what anyone would call _picky_ for quite some time. “Again, _fair enough._ ” He handed the skin back. “Well, stick with me long enough, and you’ll be bathing yourself in the finest Arbor golds.”

            She laughed. “Make it Dornish reds, and you have a deal. Arbor wines are too sweet for my tastes.”

            “I’ll make a note of that.”

            “See that you do.” She took another gulp, tossed the skin back into his lap. “So, what happened? Did somebody die?”

            He sighed, stretched in the chair until his back cracked. “Ah, that’s better, and yes, a great many somebodies died; that’s the nature of war. The problem is, these latest somebodies died in the process of losing a battle.” He paused, considered. “Two battles, in fact.”

            She seemed to consider this as she drank his wine. “I take it your side lost, then.”

            _Lost? More like we were outwitted and humiliated by a boy young enough to be my father’s grandson._ “Yes,” he admitted, “you could say that.” He closed his eyes, just long enough to savor a memory of the look on Father’s face when Ser Forley had made his report. _If Father really could shit gold, he would’ve done it then and there, by the Seven._ Tyrion spared a moment to thank gods he didn’t truly believe in, for if Ser Forley hadn’t also reported Jaime’s capture, Tyrion would’ve died right there in that tent from laughter. _Or mayhaps Father would finally have had my head struck off._ Tyrion wondered, for a moment, if he would have laughed all the way to the block.

            _Probably. It seems like something I would do._

            “So,” Shae said, turning on her side, her bent arm propping up her head, “what now? Should I take my bag of gold and make for the Reach?”

            Tyrion turned to her with a frown. “Why the Reach?”

            “Do they have rich fools in the North?”

            “They have fools,” he said, “but not so rich as you’d find in the Reach.”

            She nodded, short and sharp. “The Reach then, though I’d be sad to go. I’m having more fun than I’ve had in a long time.”

            He felt his eyes narrow in suspicion, for all that he desperately wanted to believe her. _And why should I want that? Gods, dwarf, you **are** a fool, aren’t you? No, worse than a fool, **an idiot.** A great, big, blundering **idiot.**_

            But then he took another look at Shae, and felt the tension melt away. _But it’s such a lovely dream…_

_Such a lovely dream…_

_Or is it…?_

“You don’t have to lie to me, Shae.”

            “Nor shall I, but you haven’t answered my question.”

            He shoved his hopes and dreams and suspicions and nightmares to the side, did his best to ignore the way that the word _Tysha_ rang in his ears like a gong sounding the end of the world. “No, not yet, I think. We’re going to have to negotiate, I’m afraid. The Young Wolf has turned out to not be quite so green and callow as we’d hoped, and, sad to say, at the moment? _He’s winning._ ”

            She huffed. “If I remember correctly, you could’ve told your father _that._ ”

            For a moment, he was back in the Great Hall of Winterfell, on his knees, his legs beginning to ache as Robb Stark glared down at him, bared steel laid across his lap. _Yes,_ he thought, _I could’ve told Father that the boy was anything but **foolish** or **callow**. I did, for all that Father cared to listen. _“Be that as it may, my brother is taken captive, it seems that the Baratheon brothers are going to declare against us, and our army needs to be anywhere but here.”

            She flopped back onto the pillows, gazing up at the top of the tent. “Will the northmen care to listen?”

            “If we offer a good enough deal, they will.”

            “Well, then best offer them a good deal. Being the kept whore of a lord at war is not nearly as fun as one would think.”

            “No,” he admitted, “I would imagine not.”

            _And all it will take to end it,_ he thought, _is for Cersei to not do anything stupid, or, at the very least, not let her wretched little bastard do anything stupid._

He sighed, a jagged, ice cold knot of foreboding gnawing at his bones. 

            _Gods help us._

            _Gods help us…_

“Stop thinking about your sister and come to bed.”

            That send a jolt right through him. “How could you possibly know I was thinking about my sister?”

            “Because,” she said, her tone both matter of fact and condescending, “whenever you frown like that, you’re thinking about your sister. Is she really that bad?”

            “Oh, worse. How could you know that, though? You’ve only been with me-”

            “Long enough. Now, stop thinking about her, and either shut up and come to bed, or go roust Bronn and make _him_ listen to your brooding.”

            Tyrion sighed, taking a final gulp of wine, shoving the stopper in the neck, and tossing the skin aside. “Didn’t I buy your quiet obedience along with your body?”

            Shae had turned her back to him as she scooted to what had somehow become _her_ side of the bed, opening a space for him. “I don’t remember _quite obedience_ being in the contract.”

            He stripped off his shirt, tossed it aside, and slid into the space she had made for him. “I don’t remember drawing up a contract.”

            “More fool you, _my lord._ Now hush and get some sleep.”

            “You,” he observed as he blew out the candle by the bed, “are the most insolent whore I’ve ever met.”

            “Said the man who hired the most insolent sellsword to ever walk the Seven Kingdoms.”

            Tyrion closed his eyes and smiled.

            _She’s got me there..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's Tyrion!
> 
> Alright, so, first thing's first, funny story. So, there I am, feverishly typing, more focused and intent than anyone's ever been either before, and I finally finish typing, push back from the desk, and sigh. Without missing a beat, my wife says, "So, didn't like what you originally wrote?" I said, "Pardon?" And she said, "I've been with you for almost a decade; I know what it looks like when you decide you hate what you originally wrote and then feverishly rewrite the whole thing from scratch."
> 
> So, yeah, my wife knows me inside and out, because that's exactly what happened.
> 
> Originally, this was going to be a Kevan chapter, but I hated it. You see, I've been putting off trying my hand at a Tyrion chapter for a while now, because, well, I was scared. I just feverishly re-read A Clash of Kings, though only the Tyrion chapters, trying to get a handle on the guy. I hope you like it. Let me know how I did. If it sucks, let me know, and we'll just do lots of Bronn and/or Shae chapters going forward.
> 
> As for Shae, once again, I'm taking from the show instead of the books, because Shae is waaaay better in the show. Now, part of that is personal bias, because I'm a big fan of Sibel Kekilli, but also, let's face it, it's objective fact, you know? So my Shae will be mostly drawn from Show!Shae. For those playing the home game, that means she's going to have a...shall we say...different end than she did in the show. Just something to look forward to
> 
> But seriously, how was my Tyrion? 
> 
> Man, nobody thinks Winds of Winter will ever appear on bookshelves, and those that do, think that we'll never see Dream of Spring. I have to agree with you. If you read Dance with Dragons, the whole book has the feel of a writer who lost interest a long time ago. I'm not mad about that; creators have the right to lose interest in a work, you know? I just wish GRRM would come clean and tell us the truth, you know? I know people will be mad, but honestly? I won't be. Just come clean, stop shitting on fanfiction, and concentrate on all those prequel series HBO's shelling out big bucks for. My hat is off to you, dude.
> 
> Moving on! In Friday's episode, all of those wishing for more Jon and Robb brotherly goodness will get their wish. Stay tuned!


	52. Jon

“I HATE THE SOUTH.”

            Jon turned to his right, pushing his sodden hood back so he could see the man riding beside him. “What was that, Daryn?”

            Daryn Hornwood shrugged. “I was just saying that I hate the South. It’s miserable.”

            Jon chuckled. “Well, you certainly _look_ miserable.” The heir to Hornwood really did. Daryn was slumped in his saddle, rain-soaked cloak pulled tight about him, hood pulled so low that Jon couldn’t even see his face. “It’s as if a sack of oats floated in the Tumblestone for a week until the day it grew legs and learned to sit a horse.”

            Daryn sighed. “I _feel_ like a sack oats that floated in the Tumblestone for a week. Gods, I feel...I feel-” Before Daryn could finish his thought, he reared back and let out a series of violent sneezes. “That about covers it, really,” he finally finished, snuffling as he wiped his nose with a gloved hand as sodden as his cloak.

            “It is unpleasant,” Jon admitted, “but it could be worse. It could be _sleeting,_ like it does back home.”

            Daryn sniffed. “At least sleet is _cold._ Who’s ever heard of _warm rain?_ ”

            Jon had to give him that. In the North, even summer rain was, at most, cool. This rain, though, was something different, and far worse. It did not refresh the mind and clear the senses, no, it was muggy and damp and _hot,_ like some god had gotten drunk and decided that the best thing to do was to piss down on the poor mortals below. And it was coming down in _sheets,_ too, had been for going on three days now. The southerners in his command seemed to be taking it in stride, which made sense, when Jon thought about it, _they were used to it,_ but Jon and his fellow northmen had been not fared quite so well. They were soaked, they were hot, and worst of all, to Jon’s mind, every breath made one feel like one was drowning in a thick, disgusting soup. Even Ghost was done with it, the poor direwolf trotting along beside Jon’s horse, soaked to the bone and looking bedraggled and worn.

            _At least the southerners aren’t mocking us anymore,_ Jon thought as he spared a glance over his shoulder at the column that straggled out behind him. When the rain started, his northmen had been full of groans and complaints, which the southerners had found monstrously funny. They’d made good sport of it, until Jon and his northmen started telling tales of summer snows and Northern winters, which had shut them right up. 

            _Which hadn’t stopped the Blackwoods and Brackens from squabbling._ Jon had set out with sixty mounted men-at-arms, a third northern, a third Blackwood, and third Bracken, and he was still astonished that he’d accomplished his mission with any of the southerners slitting each other’s throats. He’d known of enmity between the two houses, everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knew, and while Jon was well aware that the North wasn’t without its bitter feuds and lordly squabbling ( _just take the hill clans, who fought like roosters in a cock fight_ ), nothing had quite prepared him from the infamous enmity of Blackwood and Bracken. 

            _But the mission is done. We did what we set out to do, and only lost seven men at Stone Hedge, and none at Raventree._ Jon felt his face pull into a grimace. _Which reminds me…_

“Daryn?”

            “Hm?”

            “I wanted to thank you again. The spearman at Stone Hedge would’ve had me if it wasn’t for you.”

            Daryn waved the thanks away, just as he had the last dozen times Jon had tried to give them. “Think nothing of it, Jon, I’m serious. Consider it a down payment on the debt I owe you.”

            Jon shifted in his saddle, his discomfort having nothing to do with how his small clothes were little more than a swamp of sweat and rain. “Well, consider the debt paid, Daryn. A life for a life.”

            Daryn chuckled, turning in his saddle to face his bastard half-brother Larence, who, as befitted Jon’s squire, rode directly behind Jon. “You hear that, brother? Ser Jon saves my life from the Kingslayer, and he thinks a single Lannister man-at-arms squares the ledger.”

            Larence sniffled from within the darkness of his hood. Jon’s heart went out to the boy. He was easily as miserable as his trueborn brother, but Larence seemed to have gotten it into his head that it made him more of a man to offer not one word of complaint. “Begging your pardon, ser,” the boy said, every other word punctuated by yet another sniffle, “but my brother speaks true.”

            Jon smiled, as much to hide his discomfort as anything else. Somewhere down in the Whispering Wood, the words _Bastard of Winterfell_ had transformed from a sneered insult into a compliment, leaving Jon to wonder which was worse. “And how do you reckon that, Larence?”

            His squire’s sodden cloak shrugged. “They say that the Kingslayer is worth ten men on the battlefield, ser.”

            “There you have it,” Daryn said, turning back to Jon. “My brother is wise beyond his years. I only have to save your life nine more times, and then, _and only then,_ will the debt be paid.”

            “The war will probably be over soon,” Jon pointed out.

            Daryn laughed. “Then it’ll just have to wait for the next war, then.”

            Jon was glad for the rain and the hood of his cloak then. For a moment, the smell of rain and damp and rotting vegetation vanished, replaced with the stench of blood and shit and death as the screams of dead and dying men filled Jon’s ears. _Gods forbid,_ Jon thought. His one taste of real battle had been more than enough for a lifetime, he felt. He gave himself shake, letting the memories of the battle wash off his shoulders. It made him miss Roslin desperately. The second night after the battle, he had woken with a shattering nightmare, drenched in sweat and sobbing like a child. Roslin had been there, though, and she’d pulled him into her arms and stroked his temples until all memory of the nightmare faded and he had been able to slip into a fitful sleep.

            The next morning, as they broke their fast in Riverrun’s great hall, Jon had asked his brother if _he_ had had any nightmares. _Not yet,_ Robb had said, his face grim and his voice low, _but they say no man can escape the scars of war. I’m sure my time will come soon enough._

 _You’ll have to tell me when it does,_ Jon had said, reaching out to grip his brother’s arm.

            Robb had smiled, his hand coming up to rest on Jon’s. _Thank the gods I called you back from the Wall, brother. I don’t think I could do this without you._

 _You’d be just fine,_ Jon had told him.

            To that, Robb had just laughed. _You let me be the judge of that, brother. The point is, I’m glad you’re here._

            _I’m glad you’re here…_

“ _HALT! WHO GOES THERE?!”_

Jon jerked out of his thoughts, blinking in surprise as a half-dozen men carrying spears and swords and looking just as sodden and miserable as Daryn Hornwood stepped out from behind a thicket of bushes and blocked the road.

            “By the Seven,” Lucas Blackwood muttered as he cantered up to Jon’s left, “where did they come from? Have we reached the camp? You’d never know it, with all this damned rain.”

            Jon squinted through the rain, somewhat astonished as the camp sprang to life before his very eyes. _Which means that that hulking dark lump in the distance must be Riverrun._ They’d passed some outriders bearing Mallister badges just the day before, so the camp shouldn’t have come as a shock, and yet, here Jon was, somewhere between surprise and soul-shattered relief. _We made it. We’re back._

_I’m only a short ride away from warm fires, hot food, Robb’s smiles and Roslin’s arms._

He let out a happy sigh. “I’m Ser Jon Snow,” he said, throwing back his hood and instantly regretting it. The rain fell on his face like a slap, plastering his hair to his forehead and sending rivers of warm water into his eyes. “This is Daryn Hornwood, Lucas Blackwood, and this ugly mug behind us is Harry Rivers, Lord Bracken’s son.”

            “Lord Bracken’s _bastard_ son,” Harry threw in, cantering up into view and throwing off his own hood. “Wouldn’t want my lord father’s lady wife to start thinking that I was trying to dodge my full title.”

            Jon grimaced. He’d thought Lady Stark’s icy glares were intolerable, but if even a small portion of what Harry said about Lady Bracken was true, Jon had gotten off light. “As you say, Harry,” he managed, for lack of anything better to say.

            Meanwhile, one of the sentries had stepped forward, the better to peer up at Jon while the rain played a tinny tune on his helm. “You the Bastard of Winterfell, then?”

            Jon shrugged. “So they tell me.” 

            The sentry shrugged. “Thought you’d be taller.”

            “Oh, bugger off,” Daryn snarled, flipping the man the V. “Let us pass, before we drown. Lord Robb will be awaiting his brother’s report.”

            The sentry flipped the V right back. “Bugger yourself, _m’lord,_ we’re just as sodden and miserable as you.” Some lords, even in the North, would’ve killed a common soldier for speaking to them that way, but Daryn Hornwood was known for his easy-going nature and ribald sense of humor. It seemed the rain hadn’t dampened either, for Daryn threw back his head and laughed while the sentry shouldered his spear and stepped out of the way. “You may pass, Ser Jon,” the man said, waving towards the dark smudge of Riverrun in the distance. “Will your men be needing guides?”

            Jon turned to Lucas and Harry who, in turn, turned to their senior men-at-arms, who shook their heads. They turned back to Jon as one, but it was Harry who answered. “Our men can find the way.”

            The sentry shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He turned away, jerked his head towards a tent that leaned like peg-legged drunk just beyond the bushes he had stepped out of. “Come on, lads, as you were.”

            By the time they reached Riverrun, they were much reduced. The common soldiers had dispersed to their places in the sprawling camp, leaving only Jon, his squire, Daryn Hornwood, Lucas Blackwood, Harry Rivers, the column’s three senior men-at-arms, and poor, miserable Ghost, still loping along beside Jon. When Jon slid off his horse, it was all he could do to stop himself from sobbing with relief. The rain was just as bad in the central yard of Riverrun, but it felt somehow dryer here, and the misery of the past few days rolled off his shoulders in waves. The others felt the same, Daryn groaning as he dismounted and Harry Rivers letting out a string of happy curses as his boots hit the ground with loud, muddy squelches. Jon reached down to scratch Ghost between the ears. His direwolf seemed pleased by the attention, though, as usual, he made no sound. Jon was used to that by now, though.

            “Larence,” he said, turning back to the party, “see to the horses, and then get yourself inside and dry.”

            “I’m alright, ser,” Larence sniffled. “Your things will need cleaning and drying.”

            Jon rolled his eyes. “No arguing. That can wait an hour. Get yourself something to eat and some dry clothes to wear, _then_ scour my mail and polish my saddle.”

            His squire bowed his head and sniffle. “Yes, ser.”

            Jon smiled, thumped the boy on the shoulder, ruffled his head, and turned away. He looked around the yard, eyes searching for his wife, and was relieved not to find her. He was fond of her, had been missing her desperately, and he thought she was fond of him, but that didn’t mean he wanted her standing in the rain and mud waiting for him. Better for the Lady Roslin to wait inside, where it was _dry._

            “Ser Jon?”

            Jon turned to his left, where he found his brother’s squire and his wife’s brother, Olyvar Frey, standing before him. The boy had his cloak pulled tight, but the hood had been through back, leaving the boy to squint against the rain. _What is it with squires and trying to pretend weather doesn’t exist?_ It was, Jon felt, a question for the ages. “What can I do for you, good-brother?”

            Olyvar bowed. “Begging ser’s pardon, but Lord Robert wishes to see you right away.”

            Jon frowned. He had thought to seek out his lady wife before he went to report to Robb, for reasons that were no one’s business but theirs. “Might I change first?” he asked.

            The boy shook his head. “Sorry, ser, but no, ser, my lord said to bring you all straight to him.”

            Jon sighed, turned to the others and spread his arms. “Sorry, lads.”

            They responded with a collective shrug and a collective sigh, all but Harry Rivers, who shrugged, to be sure, but instead of sighing said, “That’ll teach me to have hopes and fucking dreams.”

            Jon laughed with the others as he turned back to Olyvar. “Well, good-brother, lead the way. How is your sister, by the by?”

            The squire was already heading for the central keep. “She eagerly awaits your return, ser. She’s gone to sept to say prayers for your health and safety twice a day.”

            With news like that, Jon couldn’t muster even the smallest bit of annoyance at his brother’s summons. Indeed, he was still smiling from ear-to-ear, humming a low, aimless tune, as Olyvar ushered them down halls, around corners, and into the great hall, where Robb was sitting in a huddle with Lord Umber, Lord Karstark, Lady Mormont, Ser Wendel Manderly, and Theon, heads bowed in conversation.

            The conversation stopped immediately, as Grey Wind shot to his feet and raced down the hall. The room filled with soft cheers and low chuckles as he and Ghost set to snapping and tussling with each other. Jon left them to it, walking towards his brother, who was already on his own feet and walking towards him, arms spread. “Robb!”

            “Jon!” Robb replied, grinning like a loon as he enveloped Jon in a rib-bruising embrace. “Gods,” Robb continued, pushing back to arms’ length, his hands keeping a tight grip on Jon’s shoulders, “but it’s good to see you. We were worried that the rain would delay you.”

            Jon gave his brother a light shove and ruffled his hair. “What, and leave you to fumble your lance and drool in your porridge? Perish the thought.”

            Robb made a lunge, and they danced around each other, laughing and shadow-boxing while everyone chuckled and Lord Umber roared with mirth loud enough to shake the rafters. They ended in another bruising embrace, slapping each other on the back as Jon tried to dodge his brother’s attempts to ruffle his own hair. He failed, but it was alright. _I’ll get him next time._

            Finally, breathless, their arms around each other’s shoulders, they faced the men who had come with Jon. “Ser Lucas, Ser Harry,” Robb wheezed, flushed and smiling, “your lord fathers await your reports. Go with my thanks for bringing my brother back safe and sound.”

            Lucas bowed, nodded at his own men, and left, while Harry also bowed, but said, smiling, “He gave us a merry dance of it, begging my lord’s pardon. First over the wall at Stone Hedge.”

            Robb rounded on Jon, a little of the mirth leaking from his eyes. “I’m not sure I like that, Jon.”

            Jon shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “You put me in command, Robb,” he pointed out, uncomfortable, mouth gone suddenly dry. 

            “I did volunteer to go first,” Daryn offered, earning a half-hearted glare from Jon, which he answered with a smile.

            Robb bowed his head to Daryn. “And you have my thanks, L…” He paused, made a face, slid his arm front around Jon’s shoulders. In an instant, the war horns in Jon’s head were sounding the alarm. _Something’s happened, something bad._ Jon glanced at Daryn, and saw the man’s smile die a slow, painful death. _Gods have mercy._

“Ser Harry,” Robb said, Jon’s brother gone, replaced by the man who would one day be known as _Lord Stark,_ “if you pleased, I must speak to my bannerman.”

            Harry’s eyes flitted, first to Daryn, then to Jon, and finally came to rest on the floor as he bowed. “My lord.” With that, he left, his men trailing behind him.

            As he left, Robb turned back to where he had been holding counsel with Theon and his lords. “My lords, Ser Wendel, Theon, we will speak more on this matter before dinner.”

            Without another word, they all rose, even Theon, bowing first to Robb, then to Daryn, before they shuffled out, nodding at Jon and Daryn in turn as they passed. Theon was the last, and as he went, Robb reached out, grabbed him by the arm, and said, “Remember, Theon, not a word to anyone, not until everything is settled.”

            Theon flashed his easy, cavalier grin and bowed. “I’ll remember, Robb. And Jon? I haven’t said this yet, and I’ll never say it again, but thank you for your counsel.”

            Jon frowned, racking his brain for when he had ever given Theon counsel that Theon had not turned back with japes and scorn. “As you say, Theon.”

            Theon waved the words aside. “Don’t worry about it; Robb will tell you soon enough.” With that, he bowed a few more times, and was gone, leaving only Jon, his brother, and Daryn Hornwood.

            Olyvar, Jon couldn’t help but notice, had vanished. Not for the first time, Jon found himself wondering how the boy managed to do that.

            “Daryn,” Robb began.

            “My father’s dead,” Daryn finished, all his easy smiles gone, his voice empty and cold as a fresh dug grave.

            Robb nodded. “Yes. Word came from Lord Bolton yesterday. There was a battle on the Green Fork, and we had the worst of it, I’m afraid. Your lord father…” He took a deep breath, pressed on. “Your lord father fell. You have our condolences, and our deepest thanks, Lord Hornwood.”

            For the first time since Jon had come to truly know him, Daryn Hornwood, _now Lord Hornwood,_ was lost for words. His mouth hung open, his face had gone the color of fresh fallen snow, and his eyes glittered with unshed tears. He looked away, screwed his eyes shut, pressed a hand to his mouth. His body shuddered, once, twice, and when he looked up, his eyes no longer glittered, though he swayed a little, as if the slightest gust of wind would knock him to floor.

            For a moment, Jon could barely breathe. Daryn was...if not his friend, _something like it,_ and in the man’s pain, Jon saw a picture of what might await him, if the gods were against them. _That could be me,_ he thought, feeling as if a hole had opened up where his heart should have been. _That could be me, and Robb._ In that instant, he could see it, feel it, _taste it,_ saw he and his brother, arms around each other, sobbing into each other’s shoulders, a raven’s scroll fallen to the ground. 

            _Father…_

Not for the first time, and somehow, Jon suspected, not for the last, a part of him, small, quiet, but sharp and cold, wished he had never left the Wall.

            Daryn coughed into his hand before he tried to speak, and when he finally managed it, his voice was thick and ragged. “My brother...I would not have my brother hear of this from anyone but me. If I may…”

            “Of course,” Robb said, still sounding like a lord. 

            Daryn nodded, bowed, turned to Jon. He reached out, clasped Jon’s shoulder, and his smile filled Jon with dread and foreboding. “I’ll go with you,” Jon forced out past a lump in his throat.

            Daryn shook his head. “I thank you, Jon, but...Larence should hear this from me. If you’re there, he’ll…” Daryn laughed, a choked, strangled thing. “He’ll try to be brave. Better if it was just me and me alone.”

            “Of course,” Jon said, before gathering himself up and giving a deep bow. “Lord Hornwood.”

            Daryn shook his head. “Let that be the first and last time you call me that, Jon.” And with that, he gave a final bow to Robb, turned on his heel, and left.

            Without a word, Jon and his brother turned and headed towards where Robb had been sitting with his lords and Theon. There was food there, and several flagons of ale. Robb poured a fresh cup, handed it to Jon, poured one for himself, and raised it in a toast. “To Lord Hornwood, the old and the new.”

            “May the gods have mercy on the old,” Jon said, raising his own cup, “and grant long life to the new.” They tapped their cups together, drained them, and then its was Jon’s turn to pour a fresh round as they sat and stretched out their legs.

            “That won’t be us, will it, Robb?” Jon asked, when he was halfway through his second cup.

            Robb shook his head. “No. _Never._ We’ve won. We have half the lords and heirs and knights of the westerlands kicking their heels in the castle, and, thanks to you, the Kingslayer. We’ll get back the men Tywin Lannister took captive on the Green Fork, and the girls, and Father, too. On that, you have my word.”

            Jon looked up from his cup. “And if they take off Father’s head?”

            Robb looked up, and when he smiled, Jon wasn’t entirely sure he liked it. “Then, brother, you and I will draw our swords and find out if Tywin Lannister really does shit gold.”

            “I’ll drink to that,” Jon said, for all that he couldn’t help but wonder how they would do it. It wasn’t Jon’s problem to come up with the plans, though. That wasn’t his _purpose._ He was his brother’s man, first, last, and forevermore. Where Robb led, Jon would follow, and let the Others try and stop him.

            _So I vow…_

“Now,” Robb said, his shoulders slumping and _Lord Stark_ fading away as he leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the table, “I believe we have reports to trade. You first; I need good new right about now.” He sipped his ale, and when he smiled, Jon wanted to laugh and cry with relief, because his brother was back. “And we’d best be quick about it, or, gods be good, the Lady Roslin will have my hide.”

            Jon blushed bright red, chuckled into his ale, and gave his report, all the while trying to ignore the sense of danger that lurked at the edge of his sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, foreshadowing? Nooooo...
> 
> So, first thing's first, apologies for any typos or minor errors. I typed this yesterday, but didn't get to until late, blah blah blah, you'd think I'd learn to do the full proofreading/copyediting, like, the day before I post or something, but I'm an idiot. Never forget that.
> 
> Anyhoo, what I am is really happy with how this turned out, so I'm not going to spoil it with apologies over random typos and rambling about whatever strikes my fancy. I just hope you guys enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. Sometimes, I wish I had the balls to literally just make this story nothing but Robb and Jon just...being super cool brothers who kick ass and take names, you know? But nooooo, I gotta jump around and shit. *sigh*
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode...well, either Arya or the Hornwood brothers. Both are written, but I can't decide which one should come next. Stay tuned!


	53. Arya

“IS THAT ALL?”

            A lifetime ago, Arya Stark would have snapped something churlish, surly, even. A lifetime ago, she would have balled her fists and crossed her arms and set her chin and said the first thing that came to her mind. _Up your arse,_ she might have said, _maybe if you pull the broomstick out you’ll find it._ Or, _I gave it all to the first street urchin I saw, they were ever so grateful._ Or even, _If you think you can do better, you’re welcome to try, you mean old cow._ She didn’t say any of that, though, barely even considered it. Arya Stark was hiding under the covers somewhere in the corners of her mind. She was Jeyne now, a blacksmith’s most junior serving girl, once of Lord Stark’s household before Willow plucked her off the streets, and Old Sybilla wasn’t afraid to take a birch to her. _I don’t know what kind of household the Starks ran,_ Old Sybilla said, the first time she’d bent Arya over her knee and drawn back the birch, _but I’ll have none of your lip here, girl._

            _And besides,_ Arya thought, _Old Sybilla isn’t a cow. She’s a good mistress, Willow says so, and she’s never birched me except that I deserved it._

            She didn’t deserve it now, though, _I did my best,_ so she bowed her head and shrugged. “That’s all I could get, what with the coin you gave me.”

            Old Sybilla frowned, held out her hand and snapped her fingers. Arya took the purse off her belt and handed it over, took the chance to push sweat-stained hair off her face and back up under her headscarf as Old Sybilla counted out the remaining coin. Behind her, Hob and one of the junior apprentices, Javor, him or Duncas, she was always getting those two mixed up, _they say they’re cousins, but I swear they’re twins,_ put down the last of the groceries, heaved joint sighs of relief, and slumped back against the wall. Arya envied them. It was monstrous hot in King’s Landing of late, and humid, too, the air hot and heavy and thick and hard to breathe. It had rained a week before, but that had brought no relief, and now the stench of the city lingered and built and grew stronger by the hour. It only needed a stiff wind out of Blackwater Bay to clear it, but for days now, there hadn’t been so much as a whiff of a breeze.

            _And all the forges are lit today, too._ The Queen had ordered the city’s smiths to start churning out arms and armor, even highly skilled smiths like Master Mott who normally made to order, which meant that the forges stayed lit day-and-night, and the heat pulsed off them in waves up and down the Street of Steel.

            Old Sybilla clucked her tongue against her crooked, age-stained teeth. “I gave you enough to buy three times what you’ve brought in, and all you’ve brought back is a few coppers.”

            Arya rocked back-and-forth on her heels, hands clasped behind her back, eyes fixed on the ground. _I’m smallfolk now,_ she reminded herself. _Smallfolk don’t look their betters in the eye unless they’re told to._ “That’s all I could get, and even that took more haggling than you’d believe.”

            “It’s true,” Hob said from behind, his voice tired and strained. He and Gendry traded off the night work, and it had been Hob’s turn to work past the previous sundown. “She blistered Brack over the price of eggs up one side and down the other, but he just wringed his hat in his hands and said the price was the price, and we weren’t like to get better.”

            “If I want your opinion, Hob, I’ll ask it,” Old Sybilla snapped, shooting the boy a glare before turning her gaze back on Arya. “Did you try to get a better price, Jeyne?”

            “Of course,” Arya replied, “Brack was the third stall we stopped at. His was the best price we found, and I didn’t fancy trying my chances anywhere else.”

            “And what was the price?”

            Arya told her, and Old Sybilla let out a curse that would’ve turned a sailor’s ears red.

            “That’s highway robbery!” the old woman said, eyes wide and full of fire. “The gall of the man! What were the other two charging?”

            Again, Arya told her, and Old Sybilla let out a string of curses even worse than the first. 

            “I hope you gave them all a piece of your mind, young lady,” Old Sybilla said, sighing as she dropped the depleted purse into her apron pocket. Arya chanced a glance up from the floor, saw that her mistress’s eyes were angry, but soft, as well. _She’s not angry at **me** , at least. _“Hob? Javor?”

            The two boys jumped to their feet. “Yes, mistress?”

            “There’s work to do in the forges, I believe.”

            They agreed that there was, and fled, leaving Arya alone with Old Sybilla, who sighed and clapped a hand to her forehead.

            “Did anyone have any explanations?” she asked.

            “Nothing new,” Arya said. “There’s naught coming up from the Reach and the Storm Lands now, Lord Stannis’s got galleys snatching any fisherman who sails out of sight of land, and the river lands is still closed.” She shifted back-and-forth on her heels a few more times, sorting through all the rumors she’d heard that day. Most of them were rubbish, even a girl of three-and-ten like her could see _that._ Why, just the other day, Jessar, another of the junior apprentices, had told her that he’d heard that the northmen were shapeshifting demons who’d used their dark, fell arts to transform into hideous beasts and rout Lord Tywin’s army on the Trident. She’d kicked him in the shins for that and considered the clout to the ears Old Sybilla had given her well worth it. _Some of the rumors, though…_ “Goodman Payton’s daughter, Shela, the one what’s pregnant by that fisher boy, says she heard Lord Renly’s gone and crowned himself king.”

            Old Sybilla gave her a hard, searching look. “And you believed that little slut?”

            _She’s not a slut, it’s not her fault Kean’s father decided to chance Lord Stannis’s galleys for a bigger catch._ Of course, Arya knew that Old Sybilla would just say that it was Shela’s fault that she fell into bed with the fisher boy in the first place, so Arya kept her mouth shut and her thoughts to herself. “It’d explain why naught’s coming out of the south.”

            Old Sybilla sighed. “Yes, it would, wouldn’t it? By the Seven, you’d think one king at a time was enough trouble for the likes of us, but the lords never ask us, do they? They just play their sodding _game of thrones_ and leave our lot to pay the price.” The old woman let out a final sigh, the heaviest yet, and threw up her hands in resignation. “Well, if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is. There’s work to be done, so go and fetch Willow and get all this sorted and put away.”

            Arya curtsied. “Yes, mistress.” It was midday, which meant that Willow would be in the kitchen, putting the final touches on lunch, so she headed off.

            “Jeyne, hold on.”

            Arya skidded to a stop. “Yes, mistress?’

            Arya had always thought of Old Sybilla as, well, _old,_ which was only understandable, she easily had a decade on Arya’s mother, but she’d never seen the woman well and truly _look it_ like she did in that moment. Old Sybilla was hunched over, her shoulders slumped, eyes screwed shut and one hand pinching her nose so hard it made Arya want to wince, and when she spoke, her voice sounded worn and tired.

            “How old are you, girl?”

            “I just turned three-and-ten.” She paused, went over the numbers, realized with a shock that she wasn’t entirely sure what day it was. _How did that happen?_ “...I think…”

            “Don’t know your own nameday?”

            Arya shrugged. She used to, but that was when she was still Arya Stark of Winterfell; she doubted anyone would’ve bothered to tell Jeyne the serving girl something like that. _Willow doesn’t know hers, she just picked one at random, and even Hob and Gendry are only guessing._ “Mother always said it was round this time of year, never had reason to doubt her.”

            Old Sybilla nodded, still pinching her nose. “You won’t remember when the stag rose against the Mad King then, would you? Well,” she stopped pinching her nose, and when she looked at Arya, her eyes were tired, but not unkind, “remind me to give you a dagger, next time you go out. And Hob and Gendry _both_ will go with you, staves in hand.”

            That brought Arya up short. “You think someone would try and hurt me?”

            “Hurt you? They wouldn’t _intend_ to, most of them, at least, but rob you? Yes, most certainly that…and you’re not one to just go along with being robbed, are you, Jeyne?” Something in the depths of the old woman’s eyes glittered then, bright and amused, and Arya knew, _knew,_ that Old Sybilla knew about Needle. _You and Willow thought you were so clever, didn’t you?_ the eyes giggled, but then Arya blinked, and the giggles were gone, replaced by something… _something Arya felt she wasn’t old enough to understand._ “The thing is…people are going to start going hungry soon, and when mothers and fathers watch their children go hungry, they...let’s just say that people aren’t always thinking clear at times like this and leave it at that. Which reminds me, I know you like to cut close to Flea Bottom on your way to the fish markets, but from now on I don’t want you anywhere near there, not until this is all settled. Understand?”

            Arya curtsied. It was an awkward curtsy, ragged and unpolished. _Sansa always made fun of me for my curtsies, and Mother used to sigh and pinch her nose, just like Old Sybilla was doing just now, and wonder what she was to do with me._ No one minded her bad curtsies now, though. _Willow made me teach her how to do it like me. She said she’d never seen a girl so graceful._ “I understand, mistress. I’ll go get Willow now.”

            Old Sybilla nodded. “See that you do and be quick about it. You’re a clever little girl, Jeyne; we may have need of those wits before these seven-damned kings and lords are through tearing the land apart.”

            One thing Arya had in common with Jeyne was that neither had ever been called a _clever little girl_ before. That made blushing bright red and stammering as she went off to fetch Willow as easy as scooping fresh butter from a jar.

            She didn’t even have to pretend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Arya, always becoming one with the mask...
> 
> So, this was originally, oh, a lot longer, and a lot more happened. But, when I sat down to edit and proofread, I found myself really enjoying the first part, this interaction between Arya and Old Sybilla. I just...I really liked it, liked it so much that I decided to let it stand on its own. I also really liked the other about two-thirds, so much that you will be seeing that bit as its own chapter... *checks* ...next Friday, looks like. But as I edited and all that jazz, it started to feel like two separate chapters that deserved the chance to stand and breathe on their own, so I split them up, and I really like the result.
> 
> It's just a good little breather, you know? Especially because, well...some shit's about to go down.
> 
> I'll let that percolate a bit...
> 
> Moving on! In Wednesday's episode, Jon's squire gets some bad news...that, or...something else... Stay tuned!


	54. Jaime

HE DREAMED.

            He was walking down a long corridor, or at least, he thought he was. Torches burned in an unending procession to either side, but they gave no light, merely flickering in the darkness, showing him the way. They must have been hanging from walls, but there were no walls to be seen. His footsteps echoed loud enough to wake the dead, but when he looked up, he could see no ceiling, and when he looked down, he could see no floor. He could not even _feel_ the floor, for all that each step made a sound like he was walking on one. It was as if he was walking on darkness itself. He felt nothing, saw nothing, knew nothing. He was not even sure of the torches. There were balls of light, and they danced and flickered and shuddered like fire, but every time he tried to look at them, the world would skew sideways and his head would spin and bile would claw its way into the back of his throat until he stopped and looked away. Something was wrong, _everything was wrong,_ but every attempt to try and find out _what_ or _why_ set a monstrous dread gnawing at his insides until he gave up and looked away.

            _Looked away…_

_I’m always looking away…_

He walked on.

            He did not know where he was walking, did not know where he was going, _did not know where he was._ Something dark and cold and inhuman whispered in his ear, _or he hoped it whispered in his ear,_ it felt as if it was speaking in raised hackles on the back of his neck and ice-cold fingers pricking their way up his spine. _You are beneath the Red Keep, Kingslayer._

“That can’t be,” he said, the last word echoing up and down and through the darkness, loud as the end of the world, _be-be-be._ “I’ve been down there.” _There-there-there._ “I took Tyrion to see the dragon skulls.” _Skulls-skulls-skulls._ “It was nothing like this.” _This-this-this._

 _And what makes you think you know all the Red Keep’s secrets?_ the cold whispered into his heart. _What makes you think you know all Maegor buried with his stonemasons?_

He gulped. His mouth was like sandpaper, his throat ragged and raw, each word, each swallow sharp as a thousand knives. “Nothing.” _Nothing-nothing-nothing._

            _So, the Kingslayer doesn’t know everything?_

“I never claimed to be clever.” _Clever-clever-clever._ His voice sounded feeble and small, like that of a child frightened of the monsters pounding at the door. “I... I never claimed to be wise.” _Wise-wise-wise._

_No, you only claimed to be a knight. You only claimed to be loyal. You only claimed to be a brother._

He stopped, though the footsteps continued, louder, closer, _louder, **closer.**_ “I _am_ a brother.” _Brother-brother-brother._ “I failed at everything else, but I am a brother, damn you.” _You-you-you._

            The footsteps stopped, and a hand leaped out of the darkness, sank ice-cold fingers dripping with blood into his arm, spun him around. He did not want to turn, had never wanted to turn, deep down he had known that to turn and look back was death, but now he was turning and he could not stop, he was turning and then he stopped and he looked down, _he didn’t want to,_ deep down he knew that there was nothing there and it was true, _there was nothing there…_

_But there was someone…_

A girl of four-and-ten, five-and-ten at most, looked up at him. Her eyes were the color of a clear summer sky and they were beautiful, for all that they were shot through with the red born of hard, cruel sobbing. An endless river of tears poured from them, a torrent that flowed down and over a face small and kind and etched with heartbreak and betrayal. The girl was dressed in an old, worn dress of faded brown roughspun, and the skirts were soaked with blood.

            She looked up at him, smiled, and when she spoke, he felt his very _being_ shatter in two.

            “Are you sure about that?”

            He screamed. He did not know what he was screaming, doubted it was anything, but he had to do something, so he screamed, screamed and stumbled away. He tripped over something, _though there was nothing to trip over, nothing but himself,_ and he fell, but there was nothing to fall onto, just the darkness, and so he did not stop. He just fell and screamed and screamed and fell and it was cold and dark and she was pointing down at him and blood flicked out from her finger, great big gobs blacker than night, and when they struck his face they burned with the fire of a thousand suns and all he could do was scream, scream and fall _and scream and fall and-_

Jaime Lannister hit a floor of hard cold stone, hit it so hard that he bit something and his mouth flooded with blood, blood that mixed with bile until his tongue was awash with the taste of salt and iron and decay. He rolled around, kicking and blubbering, he had fallen in a tangle of sheets and chains and the sound of his struggle echoed louder even than the whispers in the darkness and he gave up, he gave up and crawled across the room and snatched up the chamber pot and retched, retched blood and bile and only the gods knew what else, retched until tears ran down his face and his whole body ached and he had nothing more to retch and then he took a deep, shattering breath and retched some more.

            It was only when he finally stopped, when there was nothing to hear but his own ragged gasps for breath and the thudding of his heart in his ears that he realized he was not alone.

            “Mayhaps I’ve come at a bad time.”

            The voice came from above him, but it sounded human, and he took comfort in that, clung to it, used it as a rope to pull himself up from the last lingering dregs of darkness. _What was that place?_ he wondered. _What was I meant to see?_

 _As if you don’t know,_ whispered an unfamiliar woman’s voice.

            _Enough._ He blinked, again and again, until the tatters of the nightmare and the remnants of his tears were cleared away. A woman stood above him, a fair-skinned woman with long, auburn hair, blue eyes, and a sneer of distaste framed by high cheekbones, a woman who in her turn was framed by a yawning doorway and flanked by two men-at-arms in fish-scale mail and fish-crest helms, each one holding a torch in one hand and bared steel in the other. _Even now, with me tangled in sheets and chains with a chamber pot full of vomit cradled in my arms, men fear to meet me without steel in their hands._ Once, he would’ve taken comfort and pride in that.

            Now, with the claws of the nightmare still deep in his heart, he wasn’t so sure.

            “Lady Stark,” he croaked, flashing his best attempt at a smile. The woman’s sneer grew deeper, disgust blooming in the depths of her eyes. _Seven hells, what a sight I must be._ “Whatever could make you think that?”

            She gestured at the chamber pot and its sloshing contents. “Call it a woman’s intuition, ser.”

            He laughed, or tried to, until the effort made stars dance in his eyes and bile burn once more at the back of his throat. He pressed a fist to his mouth, coughed a few times, forced the bile back down. “Well,” he finally managed, “I may not be at my best, but who would be, in my situation?”

            “You have no cause for complaint,” Lady Stark snapped, her voice hard and cold. “You’ve been given a tower cell and held in conditions that befit your station.”

            He raised a foot, shook it until the chain rattled. “If you say so, my lady. What can I do for you?”

            She shrugged. “You tell me. You’re the one who’s been asking to speak to me.”

            _Oh, right._ He’d almost forgotten. “So I have.” A coughing fit took him, shook his body until the stars were dancing once more and he felt faint as a maiden on her wedding day. _Though mayhaps not all maidens feel so faint._ On the second day of his confinement, he’d been walking the yard, _under armed guard, of course, feet hobbled with chains,_ when he’d seen a boy wearing a black surcoat with a white direwolf striding across his chest sparring with another boy with a brown moose emblazoned on his shield. There had been a girl there, a girl wearing a fine dress in Frey colors, gazing upon the boy wearing the white direwolf with a touch of hunger in her eyes. _The Lady Roslin Snow,_ his guards had said when he’d asked who she was, _espoused to the Bastard of Winterfell. Something tells me that she did not fear the wedding bed,_ he’d japed, and the guards had laughed. Their eyes had remained hard and full of suspicion, true, but they’d still laughed, possibly because they’d known just what they’d say back. _He’s Lord Stark’s bastard,_ they’d said, _the one what beat you, Kingslayer._

 _He didn’t beat me,_ he’d wanted to say. _I did that all on mine own, long, long ago._ He hadn’t said anything of the sort, of course. 

            It would’ve been too hard to explain, and the wrong audience besides.

            He bowed his head to Lady Stark. “My lady, I wonder if...I’m afraid I have a thirst…”

            She turned, the guards stepped aside, and a pair of scullery maids came in. One placed a stool before Lady Stark, another came up to him, handed him a towel, set down a flagon of what smelled like wine, and took up the chamber pot. They curtsied to him, then to Lady Stark, and left as Lady Stark turned to the guards. “That will be all, for the moment. You may go.”

            The guards looked at each other before one, the taller, broader one, answered. “But, m’lady, Ser Edmure said-”

            “I’m well aware of what my brother said,” she snapped, her voice cracking like a whip. “But Ser Jaime asked to speak to me alone, and I doubt he’s much danger at the moment.”

            The guards looked at each other once more, spared Jaime a glance, and shrugged, all in near perfect unison. In different circumstances, Jaime would’ve laughed. _Gods, what I wouldn’t give to have Tyrion here now to see this._

_Are you sure about that?_

Cold crawled up his spine once more. He picked up the flagon and poured more than a mouthful down his throat, swallowed, poured again. It was a poor vintage, thick and sour, but it drove the darkness back, and for that, he was willing to name it the finest wine in the Seven Kingdoms. He wiped his mouth with the towel, had himself another gulp, wiped his face once more.

            When he was done, Lady Stark was perched atop her stool, and they were alone.

            “Well,” she said, picking at her skirts and smoothing out wrinkles Jaime could not see, “you asked for me, and here I am. What would you have of me, ser?”

            He shrugged, cradling the flagon as he leaned back against the wall in a jangle of chains. _At least only my feet are chained,_ he thought. _If my hands were chained as well, gods only know how I’d manage._ “I…” He frowned, gazed deep into the wine sloshing in the flagon. One of the guards had left a torch in a sconce by the door, and the combination of flames dancing and wine sloshing made the reflection that looked back at him something somewhere between grotesque and farcical. _Not the most inaccurate image, now that I think upon it._

He watched a grimace twist across his face. _At least I know they’re torches this time…_

“From you,” he finally said, surprising no one more than himself, “nothing, my lady. It is _I_ who have something to tell _you_.”

            “What,” that whip of a voice cracked, “could you possibly have to tell me? That you threw my son from a window? That, I already knew.”

            _The things I do for love._ “Well, at least that’s out of the way.”

            Silence fell, and when he looked up, he wished he hadn’t. If eyes could kill, Lady Stark’s would have sent him to the deepest and hottest of the seven hells long ago. “So,” she finally said, sounding as if she didn’t even believe her own ears, “you admit it.”

            He shrugged, turned his gaze back to his reflection in the wine. “Why deny it?”

            “You don’t even sound ashamed.”

            “And how many children would you throw from windows, if you felt they might threaten the lives of your own?”

            “...so Renly speaks true, then.”

            _Well, that’s an interesting piece of news._ “Renly?”

            “We had a bird, from Highgarden. Renly Baratheon has wed Margaery Tyrell and laid claim to the Iron Throne, with the Reach and the Storm Lands behind him.”

            _Well, that explains much._ The last Jaime had heard, before the ravens stopped coming to his siege lines, _and won’t Ser Forley be the happiest man in existence, the day he gets to say **I told you so,**_ there had been naught but silence from Highgarden and Storm’s End, and Father had almost sounded something akin to worried. _Now we know why, I suppose._ “Poor girl. You ask me, she’ll be envying Roslin Frey before the year is out.”

            “How do you know Roslin’s a Frey?”

            “Well, I doubt the Late Lord Frey dresses his bastard daughters in his house’s colors, or names them _Snow._ ” He lifted the flagon to his lips, quaffed another mouthful, though carefully this time. His towel had become rather... _distasteful,_ and he didn’t fancy putting it to his face again. “I may be the stupidest Lannister, but I’m smart enough to put _that_ together. Enjoying her marriage, is she?”

            “...how could you know that?”

            “I saw her in the yard, a few weeks ago, gazing upon her husband with star-filled eyes.”

            “My husband’s... _Jon,_ he...he’s a good boy, and kind.” A pause, fraught with things Jaime could only guess at. “And...and loyal. When I tell him you’ve admitted to pushing Bran from that window, he’ll gut you from groin to throat.”

            He looked away from the flagon, watched a thousand-thousand conflicting thoughts and emotions war across her face. Jaime couldn’t help but sympathize.

            It still astonished him that no one had even noticed the same expression on _his_ face, every time Robert Baratheon called Joffrey or Tommen his sons, or Myrcella his daughter.

            “He might,” Jaime admitted, turning back to his wine-and-torch-twisted reflection. “Let us hope that cooler heads prevail. Or do you _not_ intend to exchange me for your husband and your daughters?”

            “...we do. We’re sending the bird in the morning.”

            _Good._ The less time Jaime had to spend alone in this lordly cell, wallowing in his nightmares and his ghosts, the better, he felt. “Well, then I’d best get to it, hadn’t I?” He took another drink, deep and long, swallowed, let a small belch into a balled hand. “What is his name, the boy who beat me in the Whispering Wood?”

            “Robb. The future Lord Stark.”

            _Walked right into that one, didn’t you?_ “I meant the other one, the one who stopped me from killing that smiling fool with the moose on his shield.”

            The pause that followed stretched out so long, for a moment, Jaime wondered if he had even spoken, or if Lady Stark had heard. He was about to repeat himself when she finally answered.

            “Jon. His name is Jon. _Ser_ Jon now.”

            _Well, at least the Bastard of Winterfell was a **knight** when he gave me a black eye. _“He’s not your husband’s bastard, you know. A bastard he might be, but not Eddard Stark’s.”

            “How could you _possibly_ know that?”

            _She’s heard this before._ Jaime shouldn’t have been surprised. The boy’s true father had been fond of traveling, had won the greatest tourney in a hundred years right here in the river lands. _And the river lands are crawling with Targaryen loyalists._ People had noticed, people were talking, and at least one of them, it seemed, had tried to whisper something to Lady Stark.

            _But she hasn’t heard all of it._ He knew that, for all that he didn’t understand _why_ he knew it. Part of him wished she had.

            The other part of him was still deep in the nightmare, walking away from all his failures.

            “You know, my father once had four brothers. Only Uncle Kevan remains to us, but there was also Uncle Tygett and Uncle Gerion. I never really knew Uncle Tyg all that well, he had a rather... _stormy_ relationship with my lord father, I think that’s a good way to put it, so he wasn’t around all that much. He was kind to Tyrion, though, but that’s a story for another day, I think. It’s Gerion I want to talk about, Uncle Gery. Uncle Gery was my favorite, mine and Tyrion’s both, always full of smiles and laughter. He was the only man in the West who refused to take Father seriously, not least because he was the only man who could get away with it. When he didn’t come back from his mad attempt to find Brightroar, we were devastated, Tyrion and I. Father, I imagine, was relieved, the last man in the world who ever dared to laugh at him was gone, but Casterly Rock was all the darker for Uncle Gery’s being gone. Not all of him was gone, though; he left a daughter, Joy is her name, Joy Hill, my cousin. A sweet girl, she’d be...eleven now, eleven or twelve. When it became clear Uncle Gery wasn’t coming back, Father tried to declare that Joy wasn’t his _actual_ daughter and have her thrown from the Rock. Aunt Genna put a stop to that. Father was furious. _She doesn’t even look like Gerion,_ he said. _It’s bad enough that I’m plagued by my imp of a son, must I also be plagued by the by-blow of some drunken sailor that some clever whore foisted on my idiot of a brother?_ Aunt Genna stood her ground. _She’s the spitting image of Gerion,_ she said. _You just have to **look.**_ And she had a point. At first glance, Joy looks nothing like Uncle Gery, especially when she was little. But then she grew older, and certain features came out. You’d have to have known Uncle Gery well, and I mean, _really well,_ and you’d have to really _look,_ but there’s this way she stands, this expression she adopts, and just like _that,_ ” he snapped his fingers, “it’s as if my Uncle Gery had risen from the grave and put on a dress.” He raised the flagon to his lips, dribbled the sour wine onto his tongue. “Father dropped the matter after that. Aunt Genna was right, after all. Once you saw it, you could not unsee it, and you kicked yourself wondering how you could’ve been so blind for so long.”

            It was a long time before Lady Stark spoke.

            “I don’t...what was the point of all that?”

            He sighed, looked up at her. “I think you know.”

            She tried to meet his gaze, tried and failed, her eyes skittering off to something only she could see. “I don’t...I’m not sure I do.”

            He sighed, closed his eyes. She was still there, the girl from his nightmare, her and her blood-soaked dress. She was not alone, somehow, he knew she had never been alone. There were others, _so many others,_ Arhur Dayne and Lewyn Martell and Gerold Hightower and poor old Willem Darry and Rhaella Targaryen, poor Rhaella, _you’re hurting me, everyone condemns for killing her husband, but none of them ever heard her beg him to stop hurting her,_ and the other Targaryens, little Aegon and little Rhaenys with her big black cat and there was Elia Martell, her face was smashed to pieces and she was covered in blood and gore but somehow he knew it was her, and behind her…

            _Behind her…_

“Your husband’s bastard is not your husband’s bastard,” he said, or, at least, _he thought he said,_ his voice sounded as if someone was doing a poor imitation of him, from very far away.

            He opened his eyes and looked at Lady Stark, watched as tears trickled down her face, tears of heartbreak or tears of anger, he could not say, was not sure he wanted to know.

            “He’s Rhaegar Targaryen’s, his and Lyanna Stark’s, and if any man doubts my word, let him pick up a sword and face me before gods and men.”

            There was no pause this time, no long silence, only a few words, uttered in a voice hot and angry as the seven hells.

            “That...that son-of-a- _bitch._ ”

            Lady Stark did not wait to find out what he thought of that. In the blink of an eye, she was on her feet, pounding on the door, and when it swung open, she raced out in a flurry of skirts and rage, leaving Jaime on the floor, tangled up in his sheets and his chains and his failures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the penny drops...
> 
> That was...phew, that was intense. Full fire in the circus, that. And it was a bitch-and-a-half to write, let me tell you. Not because I didn't know what I wanted to say, but because...this and the next are really important chapters, you guys.
> 
> Really important. So, you know, gotta get them right, you know?
> 
> I'm not gonna ramble on too much here. I will take a moment and talk about how I feel that so many could miss Jon's resemblance to Rhaegar. Basically, I base it on myself. My mom threw my biological father's drunken, coke-addled, abusive deadbeat ass out when I was about six-months-old, and the vast majority of people in my life have never met him, might even know he exists unless they ask me. So, most people think I take after my mom. Most people that is...
> 
> Except for people who knew my father. Even my aunts and uncles, who all despised my father, admit that I'm a dead-ringer for him, especially when I grew out my beard. Family resemblance is like that, sometimes. Shit, my own eldest son's like that. He takes after my wife, until you put an Angels baseball hat on his head and imagine him with glasses, and then it's like I'm standing next to my carbon copy. 
> 
> But enough about that. Time to let the chapter sink in, all of its own, beyond saying that, in my mind, the last two chapters, this one, and next few, all take place in the same forty-eight hours or so. 
> 
> Moving on! In Friday's episode, Sansa hears her father's true confession. Stay tuned!


	55. Sansa

THE KNOCK STARTLED HER. She had been expecting the summons, had been expecting someone to come for her in the middle of the night, but she hadn’t been expecting a knock. It had been so long since anyone had bothered to knock on Sansa’s door. Every evening, the maids would help her prepare for bed and the septa would pray with her and then they would all bow and leave and the door would swing shut, a key turning loud in the lock. In the morning, it was the key that would wake her, the jangle and the turn and the loud _clunk_ before the door swung open and the septa returned, the maids following close behind. _Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, sweetling,_ the Queen had said when Sansa finally mustered the courage to ask about the lock. _Things are so unsettled right now, and I could never forgive myself if something happened to my sweet son’s beloved bride-to-be._ And Sansa, like the good little girl she tried oh so very hard to be, had accepted that. After all, the Queen was kind and gentle and beautiful, _just like the queens in the songs,_ the Queen only wanted to protect her babies, _just as Mother would do,_ and to protect her babies the Queen was taking every measure to protect _her_ and Sansa never even thought of questioning it.

            It wasn’t until after she’d finally seen her father, finally had the chance to hurl herself into his arms and call him _Papa_ like she had when she was little and sob until there was a stitch in her side that she finally found herself wondering, if the door was being locked to protect her, then why was it being locked from the _outside?_

            _And why did no one ever **knock**?_

For what felt like a long time, nothing followed the knock. Sansa sighed, laid her head back upon her pillow. _I must have imagined it._ She closed her eyes, tried to sleep, but she couldn’t. It was so hard to sleep, had been ever since that horrid day when Myrcella had taken her to the Queen and the Queen had asked what was wrong, _she was so kind, so gentle, she caressed my face and promised everything would be alright, that she’d take care of me, **I’m sure it’s all one big misunderstanding, sweetling, nothing more,**_ but then they’d locked Sansa in a windowless room and they’d thrown Jeyne Poole in with her, thrown her in only to take her away, and when Sansa emerged once more into the light of day, Father was in a cell and Arya had disappeared and no one would tell her where her maids or Septa Mordane or Jeyne were, hardly anyone talked to her _at all,_ she couldn’t even see Joffrey, the only person who would see her was the Queen, the Queen who was always so sweet and gentle and kind, the Queen who held her when she cried and told her everything would be alright, _you’ll soon see, dear heart, you’ll soon see,_ but then Sansa had finally seen her father in the godswood and Father had held her as she cried and cried and _cried_ and Father told her they were going to go home soon, _everything will be alright, I promise,_ but before the guards came to take Father away he’d pulled her close and whispered something in her ear and now Sansa wasn’t sure what to make of the Queen’s kindness and the Queen’s smiles, Sansa wasn’t sure of _anything_ anymore, it was all so-

            The knock came again, gentle, polite, but louder than before.

            Sansa shot upright on her bed. She stared at the door, her heart racing, her ears straining at the silence. She could hear her heart thudding in her head and could almost _feel_ the blood pumping in her veins and she was on her feet, she didn’t even remember getting out of bed. _Someone is waiting for me to give them leave to enter._ It made her giddy just to think about it, for all that she didn’t know why. _Someone is waiting for **me** to give them **leave**! _She was in front of the mirror, a brush in her hand that she didn’t remember picking up, a brush she was already working through her hair. _A lady’s armor is her courtesy._

            The knock came again.

            “Just a…” She stopped, glared at herself in the mirror. _You sound like a little girl. **I’m sorry, my dear, but it’s time to grow up.**_ She gave up on the brushing, she’d laid down in the same dress she’d worn to dinner with the Queen and she’d tried to keep her hair nice but somehow it was all frizzy now and there was nothing to do but braid it. _What are you doing?_ a voice that sounded like Arya’s snarled. _You’re being stupid._

            _A lady must always look her best,_ she snapped back, but out loud, she said, “Just a minute!” Her voice still sounded high and faint, but it wasn’t as bad as before.

            **_I’m sorry, my dear, but it’s time to grow up…_**

Her hair was halfway braided when the knock came again. “Please, a thousand pardons,” she said, willing her fingers to move quicker, _cursing her fingers to move quicker,_ she and Jeyne had braided each other’s hair a thousand times, it wasn’t hard, but Sansa’s hair was long and thick and her fingers seemed to have tripled in size and become numb into the bargain. 

            She managed, though. A lady’s armor is her courtesy, and a lady must always look her best. That’s what Septa Mordane had taught her, what Mother had drilled into her, and she couldn’t imagine that either of them would ever lie to her.

            She couldn’t imagine that either of them could ever be wrong.

            Finally, she was finished. Tension had flooded into her shoulders when she’d realized that the knock was real, but now a little bit of it leaked out as she gave the braid a quick tuck to make sure it was put together right and threw it back over her shoulder. She turned to the door, brushed wrinkles out of her dress, flicked away a bit of lint here and a loose hair there. She took a deep, calming breath, slowly released it as she drew herself up tall, back straight, jaw out, eyes clear and open, and when she spoke, she sounded almost confidant. 

            “You may enter.”

            The key jangled, turned, _clunked,_ and when the door swung open, she bit down on a squeak of surprise as the last person she had expected to see stepped into her room and bowed. 

            “Lady Sansa,” the man said, his voice high and effeminate. 

            “Lord Varys,” Sansa replied as she sank down in a curtsy.

            Lord Varys looked her up and down, the torch in his hand doing strange things to his face. “You were not expecting me, were you, child?”

            She smiled. “I confess that you have taken me by surprise, my lord. I was not expecting such august company.”

            He laughed, a soft, squeaky titter that seemed to flutter around the room in a cloud of lavender, lilac, and rosewater. “Your courtesies are exquisite as usual, my lady. Your lady mother would be proud.”

            She bowed her head. “I am honored to hear you say so, my lord.” She paused, fought off an overpowering urge to nibble on her bottom lip, as she used to when she was a little girl and Septa Mordane would drag her and Arya in front of Mother for fighting. “Speaking of my lady mother…”

            Lord Varys stopped her with a raised hand and out-turned palm. “I’m afraid I must stop you there, my lady. I understand your desire for news of your family, but I’m afraid that we must away.” He paused, and a strange expression, _or something akin to a strange expression,_ rippled across his face. “Besides, there are things that Lord Stark wishes to tell you himself, and I happen to agree with him on that. Do you have a cloak, my lady?”

            “Of course, my lord. Will I need it?” Even here, in the coolness of the Red Keep, high up on Aegon’s Hill where the haze that hung over the city could not reach, the days had been hot and humid. The castle smiths worked stripped to their smallclothes, the knights who sparred in the yard would be soaked in sweat when they removed their helms to quaff water by the gallon, and just the other day Princess Myrcella had leaned close and whispered that it was so hot in the laundry that the scullery maids had to work naked as their name days. 

            “The cloak itself? Probably not,” Lord Varys admitted. “The hood, however, is a necessity, I’m afraid.”

            Sansa nodded and walked to her wardrobe, grabbing the first cloak that she found. “I thought the Queen knew that I was going to speak to my father,” she said as she threw it over her shoulders and clasped it with a direwolf brooch. Her calm almost cracked when she saw it. It was beautiful, glittering in the flickering light of candles and the Spider’s torch. _I had it made for Lady,_ she remembered. _I had this one, and Lady had a matching one on her collar._ Tears burned in her eyes, and her vision clouded for a moment as she blinked them away. _I must not cry. I must be strong. A lady must always look her best._

_**I’m sorry, my dear, but it’s time to grow up…**_

“Are you alright, my lady?”

            She turned back to Lord Varys and flashed her brightest smile. “Just a moment of homesickness, my lord, nothing more.” She threw the hood up over her head and curtsied, her finest one ever, she felt. “After you, my lord.”

            Lord Varys smiled. It was a kind smile, gentle, and Sansa would have been thankful for it had any of it reached his eyes. “As you wish, my lady.”

            They had turned several corners and walked through several doors, each one magically opened by the key in Lord Varys’s hand, before either of them spoke again. “In answer to your question,” Lord Varys said, startling Sansa so that she almost tripped over the hem of her skirt, “yes, the Queen knows that I am taking you to speak with your lord father. How could she not, when Lord Stark made clear that he would agree to nothing before he’d spoken to you, alone?”

            Sansa didn’t speak until she’d regained her equilibrium. _A lady must always look her best, and that includes the way she walks._ Once, Sansa had stayed up late into the night, pacing endless circles in her room, a book balanced upon her head, refusing to give up until she could go twenty circuits without the book so much as wobbling. Mother had been so pleased that she’d given Sansa extra lemon cakes at dinner. “Then why must I be hooded?”

            “Because it is best that as few people see your face as possible, my lady.”

            Sansa didn’t know what to say to that, so she settled on, “I bow to your judgment, my lord.”

            After that, they walked in silence for a time. The castle was quiet, almost unnaturally so, and they so no one, not even a guard. Once, the ugliest cat Sansa had ever seen, black as sin, had run out in front of them, hissed, and disappeared, leaving Lord Varys shake with nervous giggles and Sansa to thank the Seven that she’d used the privy before the Spider had knocked on her door. After that, more silence, more walking, _more darkness._ There were moments when Sansa could _feel_ the weight of the castle bearing down on her shoulders, leaving her feeling faint, her head spinning. Once, a lifetime ago, she had seen the Red Keep for the first time, and it had taken her breath away. It was everything she had imagined it would be, the perfect castle from which she would one day be the perfect queen for the perfect king.

            Now, though, it seemed like the most horrid of monsters, snarling at her from the depths of her darkest nightmares.

            She could not say when the change had happened, only that it had.

            “Lord...Lord Varys?”

            “Yes, my lady?”

            “Do you...do you know what my father wishes to tell me?”

            “...let us say that I have a strong notion, my lady, and leave it at that for the nonce.”

            “Oh, alright...the Queen, she...she expects me to break my fast with her in the morning.”

            “I know.”

            “I think she wants me to tell her everything Father tells me.”

            “I would imagine so.”

            “Should I?”

            Lord Varys came to a sudden halt, waited with a patient, almost indulgent smile on his face as Sansa skidded to her own stop and turned back to face him. When he spoke, his voice was as soft and gentle as his smile, but Sansa took no comfort from it, not from the smile and not from the voice, for the eunuch’s eyes were hard and cold as stone.

            “My lady...I would advise against that. If you value your life, if you value your father’s life, _if you value the lives of your family,_ what you tell Her Grace will not be what your lord father is about to tell you.”

            She looked away. “I’m not very good at lying…”

            “Then don’t lie, my lady. If anything, I would advise against it.”

            “But, that...that doesn’t make any sense…” **_I’m sorry, my dear, but it’s time to grow up…_** “None... _none of this makes any sense…”_

Lord Varys sighed, laid a soft, perfumed hand on her shoulder. “It never does, my lady, not to me, not to anyone, but as I said, if you value your family’s lives, you will find a way.” He gave her shoulder a light squeeze, released her, and gestured with his torch down the hall. “Shall we, my lady? Your father awaits, and dawn grows ever closer.”

            She nodded, blinked back tears she did not understand, and walked on.

            She did not speak again until they reached the good to the godswood. Lord Varys had unlocked it with his magical key, swung it open, bowed and said _my lady_ as he beckoned into the darkness with his torch. She curtsied, thanked him, _a lady must never forget her courtesies,_ took a step, then another, then one more…

            _And stopped._

“I can’t.”

            She felt the frown, but did not see it. Her eyes were locked on the ground, fixated on the spot where the stone of the Red Keep faded into the earth of the godswood. In the darkness, the earth looked black as pitch, damp leaves glittering like Ser Hugh of the Vale’s blood had glittered as it sprayed through the air, the Mountain’s lance in his throat. _Jeyne went into hysterics, had to be led away by Septa Mordane. I mocked her for it the next day when we broke our fast. I shouldn’t have done that. It was cruel and stupid…_

_Stupid, stupid, **stupid** …_

“My lady,” Lord Varys said, his voice not unkind, “I’m afraid you must.”

            “But, I... _I can’t!”_ Her words stuck in her throat, tears burned their way down her cheeks, she was shuddering and shaking and her knees were like water and she could not _breathe._ “ _I...I betrayed my **father** and I betrayed my **family** and I’ve been nothing but a stupid little **idiot** and-”_

“Lady Sansa, look at me.”

            _No, I can’t, I look **ugly** and how could I even care about **that** I’m so **stupid** -_

“Lady Sansa, please, look at me.”

            _A lady’s armor is her courtesy._ It had been her first lesson, the lesson she worked the hardest at, so…

            _She looked…_

And for the first time since she had come to King’s Landing, she looked upon Lord Varys and realized that, for once, his eyes matched his face.

            “Lady Sansa,” he said, and to her shock it was _he_ who looked away, _he_ who looked nervous and uncomfortable, “the realm dances upon the edge of a knife. A generation of planning and scheming hangs in the balance, and each and every member of your family has their necks in a noose, no matter that most of them don’t deserve it. The things your father has to tell you are important, the things he has to _confess_ are important, the secrets he means to impart to you are _important._ I...we all reach turning points in our lives, points of no return. We never ask for them, never expect them, _never want them,_ but they arrive, and nothing is ever the same. I...I cannot say what you will be when you leave this place tonight, but you will not be as you were, and come morning, the Queen will come to you with her questions and words that will seem kind and motherly and you will have to decide who you are, what you will be. For my part, I think your father is making a grave blunder, but he knows of your mistake, knows it and yet, still he trusts you. Mayhaps he’s a fool, mayhaps I am, mayhaps we all are, but all I know for certain is that, for the realm to endure, you must walk into this godswood and speak to your father. Do you understand, my lady?”

            Her father’s words, whispered in her ear as the guards reached out for him, echoed in her ears.

            **_I’m sorry, my dear, so very sorry, but I’m afraid it’s time to grow up…_**

She swallowed her tears, wiped her eyes, and curtsied. “My lord,” she said, and walked into the darkness.

            In the morning, the Queen found her in the castle sept, on her knees before the Mother, hands pressed tight together, lost in prayer. “We missed you this morning, little dove,” the Queen said, in a voice straight out of song.

            “A thousand pardons, Your Grace,” Sansa replied, in a throat ragged and raw from all her prayers. “I...I forgot, I came here, I needed to speak to the gods, and I...I lost track of time…”

            The Queen reached out, enveloped Sansa in her arms, pulled her close, and when Sansa shuddered at the touch, the Queen looked at Sansa’s face and tutted. “You’ve been crying, poor lamb.”

            Sansa sniffled and dabbed at her nose with a kerchief. “I...it was a long night, Your Grace, long and...and difficult…”

            The Queen smiled, and seemed perplexed when the sight made Sansa start to cry in earnest. “Oh, you poor thing, up all night, nothing to eat, kneeling for hours on this cold floor...what did your father say to you?”

            Sansa didn’t even think. “My father, gods forgive him, confessed his many treasons.” With that, she burst into hysterical sobs and buried her face in the Queen’s shoulders.

            The Queen patted her back, muttered soft words in a sweet voice. “Oh, poor thing, men are beastly, aren’t they, don’t you worry, everything’s going to be alright, you’ll see, we’ll say no more about it…”

            But somehow, in ways she didn’t fully understand, Sansa could hear, _could feel,_ the wolfish smile of smug satisfaction, and in that moment, for the first time in her short life, Sansa Stark learned what it was to truly hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the pennies keep dropping...
> 
> So, I just know someone's going to feel cheated, and truth be told, this morning, this chapter included about...1,500 words worth of Sansa and Ned's conversation. But then I realized...wait, we already know this, Jaime already told us the most important part, for Sansa's character arc, the precise words of the conversation aren't all that important. And, well, those words aren't. It's Sansa's reaction that's important.
> 
> What's important, is the moment Sansa Stark finally begins to well and truly grow up. I mean, in this story, poor girl's only about...fifteen or sixteen or so, but life is never all that fair, is it?
> 
> So, in the end, I've decided to cut out Ned's confession, for now. If you need it spelled out, basically, he told her about Jon, told her everything he knew about Cersei and Jaime and their children, laid it all out for her, and she...she had to grow up. Like I said, everything Ned would've told Sansa is stuff we, the readers, already know. 
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, a line is drawn in the snow. Stay tuned!


	56. Samwell

HE WAS HAVING THE VULTURE DREAM AGAIN.

            It had started like all the rest. He was the Vulture King, the Dornish outlaw who had menaced the Marches during the reign of Aerys I. He had been captured, and he was being dragged between the ranks of the marcher lords, all of them jeering and laughing, spitting and cursing and making the most horrid of promises. His forebear was there, Savage Sam Tarly himself, but as usual, Savage Sam had the face of Lord Randyll Tarly, a face twisted in the expression his lord father had worn on the day he had told Sam that Sam was to take the black or die, something between disappointment and elation, never regret. The men lashed Sam to the posts, the vultures began to circle, and his father raised Heartsbane into the air and laughed and called the vultures down, and all Sam could so was close his eyes and pray that this time, _maybe this time,_ he would wake up before the vultures started to feast.

            He closed his eyes and prayed, but this time, the vultures never came.

            It took him a long time to open his eyes. He was afraid, _terrified, what does this mean, the dream has never changed before, it always goes the same way,_ he was sure, _certain,_ that the silence that fell, the way even the arid, sand-filled Dornish wind seemed to be holding his breath, was nothing good. He screwed his eyes ever more tightly shut, closed his ears, _closed his senses,_ sang “The Song of the Seven” over and over _and over,_ praying for it all to be over, _why am I being tormented like this, just let it end, let it-_

“Open your eyes, Sam.”

            Sam’s eyes shot open. He was still naked, still tied to the posts, the vultures were still circling overhead, but other than that, he was alone. His father as Savage Sam was gone, the jeering men-at-arms were gone, the stench of death from the battle just finished was gone, it was just him... _just him…_

And, sitting in front of him, using an oil-stained rag to clean a long, slender sword with a bright red ruby in the hilt and a long, dark blade of rippling steel that seemed to drink in the sun, was…

            _“Jon?”_ Sam gasped, his throat dry and sandy, his voice ragged from a thirst that, in the nightmare, he was sure he could never quench.

            Jon smiled, but not like Sam had seen his friend smile. The smile was sad, forlorn, _small,_ somehow. Jon seemed different, too, his face... _his face older,_ lined with care and hardship, his wavy dark brown hair longer than Sam had last seen it, long enough to be pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. _And his eyes…_

Sam had always found Jon’s eyes to be one of his more striking features, the way they were a grey so dark that they were almost black. But here, in the bright, blinding sun of the Dornish marches, there was something almost... _almost…_

_There is something almost purple, glimmering deep in their depths…_

“So, you recognize me? Good.” Sam frowned. Not only did Jon look older, but he _sounded_ older. “I was doubtful, but my brother…” Jon took a deep breath, let it out. “Nevermind.” He flipped the sword over in his lap, started to clean the other side of the blade. “The point is, we’re here, and we’re talking, though gods know I understand not a bit of it.”

            Sam frowned. Jon had always been prone to brooding, brooding that could border on childish sulking, but this was... _something else._ Sam blinked, squinting against the glare of the sun, trying to take in all that he could see of his friend. The more Sam looked, the more he was certain of it: It _was_ Jon, but _older,_ several years older. He had a scar across his face, and he was armored in plate-and-mail. His surcoat bore the arms of House Stark, a running grey direwolf across an ice-white field. _Full Stark arms, too, no bastard arms._ Resting in the dirt and sand beside Jon’s foot was a... _a circlet of some kind._ Sam wanted to call it crown, but it looked like no crown Sam had ever heard of. It seemed to be plain hammered bronze, surmounted by nine iron spikes shaped like long swords, the band inscribed with... _runes…?_

“What’s that?” Sam said, trying not to wince at the way every word felt like a knife was being drawn up and down the inside of his throat.

            Jon stopped cleaning his strange sword long enough to lean over, glare at the circlet, and kick it away. It clinked and clattered across the ground and over a ledge, vanishing in a flash of iron and bronze. “That? Something I never wanted. Don’t worry about it. So,” he continued, once more cleaning his sword, “quite a pickle you’ve gotten yourself into.”

            Sam could only shrug, trying his best not to think of how ridiculous he looked, naked as his name day and spreadeagled between two posts. “Yes, well...I’ve been in it before. Father ordered a singer to tell me the tale of Savage Sam Tarly and the Vulture King when I was a boy, and I’ve had this blasted nightmare about it ever since.”

            Jon shot him a strange _look,_ a look that filled Sam with foreboding. “Not quite what I was talking about, though you do look rather silly.”

            _I do, don’t I?_ He felt a flush of embarrassment creeping its way up his legs, desperately tried to fight it down, felt the flush burn ever brighter as he failed. _You’d think I’d learn to stop trying to look absurd._ “Yes, well...that’s the nightmare, you know? I die screaming, and I look like a fat, blubbering fool while I do it.”

            Jon sighed, shook his head. “I’m not coming back, you know.”

            Sam looked away. “Yes, I know. Winterfell sent us a bird announcing your brother’s victories, along with your letter. Congratulations on your marriage.”

            “Aye,” Jon said, in a voice small, strangled, _sad,_ “my marriage...poor Roslin…”

            Sam frowned, turned back to Jon. “Poor _who?_ ”

            Jon turned his sword over a few times, nodded, slid it back into a plain, battered scabbard. “Don’t worry about it, you’ll never meet her, which is a shame; she so wanted to.” Jon didn’t wait for Sam to reply, just bounded to his feet, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, a hilt of well-worn gold wrought in the shape of a flame. “The point is...I’m not coming back to the Watch. I think I might have found a measure of happiness and belonging there, but it was not to be. I’m not coming back, _not as a brother of the Night’s Watch, anyways,_ which means...well…” He paused, made a face, turned on his heel, walked away. He stood at the ledge he had sent the strange circlet flying off of, sighed, reached down. When he rose, the circlet was back, gleaming in his hand. “I can never quite get rid of this damn thing, can I? No matter how hard I try, it just comes rolling right back.”

            “What is it?” Sam asked, even though, somewhere deep inside where conscious thought ended and _something else_ began, he knew, _oh how he knew._

            Jon grimaced. “The worst thing in the world, but no matter.” With a heavy sigh, he set the circlet upon his head, his shoulders slumping as he turned back to Sam. “What matters is that you’ve got to stop waiting for me to swoop in and solve your problems for you, Slayer.”

            The last word fell from his best friend’s lips so easily, _so naturally,_ that all Sam could do was throw his head back and laugh. “Oh, come now, what jape is this? _Slayer?”_

Jon smiled, and this time, there was nothing sad in it, just something... _wistful._ “Aye, _Slayer._ You’ll understand someday. Until then, _stop expecting me to save you, Sam._ Think for yourself, stand on your own two feet, _and thrive._ ”

            Sam closed eyes that burned with unshed tears he didn’t understand. “ _Stop it, Jon, or whatever you are. I’m a fat, awkward craven, and you know it._ ”

            “Aye,” his friend said, voice soft and kind, “you’re a bit on the portly side, even now, and even Lyanna dances better than you, and she’s not even five, but, by the gods old and new and red, Sam, _you’re not gods-damn craven._ So, stop thinking you are, stop listening to your prick of a father’s lies, _and wake up._ ”

            Sam tried to make sense of all of that, he really did, but then his mind snagged on the name _Lyanna_ and he frowned. “Wait, what?”

            His eyes shot open, but gone were the Dornish Marches. Gone was the sand and the wind and Jon with his strange circlet of bronze and steel and his slender sword that drank in the sun. 

            In the place was Pyp, looking frustrated, leaning over him and shaking him so hard Sam’s teeth were clacking together.

            “Come on, you ass, _wake up!_ ”

            Sam couldn’t believe it. The dream, or nightmare, _or whatever it was,_ had felt so... _so real,_ more real than it ever had before, but it was gone, gone as if it had never been. _I’m still here. I’m still Samwell Tarly, brother of the Night’s Watch, slowly freezing to death in the library._ Pyp was still shaking him, and Sam groaned, swatted his friend’s hand away. “I’m up, I’m up,” he grumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Seven hells, Pyp, _I’m up._ What is it _now?_ ”

            “Don’t grumble at _me,_ Sam,” Pyp snapped, the flickering light of the candles combining with his thin, sharp features to make him look angry and foreboding, though his voice sounded naught more than _irked._ “I’m not the one who keeps passing out in the library.”

            Sam turned, looked at the mountains of books piled around him, took in the pieces of foolscrap covered with writing and the quill resting in an inkpot. “Yes, well...it’s dull work, and the Lord Commander has been working me hard.”

            “He’s been working all of us hard,” Grenn grumbled as he stepped into view, the better to loom over Pyp’s shoulder. “In fact, it’s the Old Bear that we’re here about.”

            Sam bit down on another groan. _What now, indeed._ Mormont had had Sam dragging his bulky frame from one end of Castle Black to the other, up and down and around and through, poking into every nook and cranny. He had followed along behind Bowen Marsh taking notes on the stores of food, had endured Ser Alliser’s insults as he made an inventory of the castle’s arms and armor, had stayed up late into the night with Clydas under Maester Aemon’s supervision, copying every possible piece of information on Others and wights and the Long Night from a half-a-hundred different books and scrolls, compiling it all into one handy reference guide. Through it all, Castle Black had rung to the hammers and saws of the Builders building and the clang of steel-on-steel of the Rangers training, all while six-hundred sworn Brothers of the Watch held their breaths and waited…

            _And waited…_

“And what does the Lord Commander want?”

            Pyp pointed through the nearest window. “For every man of the garrison to get himself out and into the yard.”

            Sam frowned, his... _his...dream, or whatever it was,_ lingering at the edges of his senses. _Stop expecting me to save you…_

_Think for yourself…_

**_Slayer…_ **

“And what...what does the Lord Commander want us to _that_ for?”

            Grenn and Pyp shrugged in near perfect unison. “God know,” Grenn said, “but we’d best be quick about it, or we’ll be the last ones there.”

            Sam couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he lumbered to his feet, threw on his cloak, pulled on his gloves, and followed his friends out the door. On their way out, they passed Maester Aemon, watching Clydas throw meat to the ravens. Sam skidded to a stop, watched them for a moment, his friends paused a few paces beyond, waiting for him, Grenn patiently, Pyp... _less so._

“The Lord Commander wants the garrison out in the yard, Maester Aemon,” Sam said, shrugging his head at his friends.

            Clydas chuckled, while Maester Aemon shifted on his stool and shook his head. “Not us, Samwell, I’m afraid. I’ll look for you when you return.”

            The sense of foreboding that filled Sam was almost overpowering, threatened to turn his feet to stone and his bowels to water, so he did the only thing he could think to do. He forced out a laugh, promised to tell Maester Aemon all about it when he came back, and ripped his feet from the floor before they had the chance to grow roots.

            It was cold in the yard, so cold that every breath sent ice cold knives down Sam’s throat. _Not unlike in your dream,_ a voice whispered in Sam’s ear. It had snowed all through the previous day and the previous night, only stopping a few hours before. The brothers of Castle Black formed a thick, unwieldy clump on one side of the yard, the black of their clothes and cloaks a startling contrast against thick carpet of blinding white, fresh fallen snow that blanketed the yard. Flakes still fluttered and danced in the air, and the breath of near five-hundred men hung in thick clouds in the air.

            On the other side of that yard sat one man, big and burly as a bear, thick beard shot through with white and grey, the hood of his cloak thrown back, revealing a face lost in thought, eyes gazing at something only he could see. Little flecks of white dusted his shoulders, and his thick, meaty hands rested on the hilt of long bastard sword that was thrust, point down, in the snow.

            When Sam saw that, it took every ounce of his being not to turn on his heel and run the other way. It would be a long time before he could understand _why._

            Sam followed Pyp and Grenn as they strode to a place at the far right end of the clump. Sam somehow found himself wedged between the two of them, hands shoved under his armpits for warmth, teeth chattering in the cold. There, he joined the others, waiting as other black shapes filtered out of the castle in ones and twos and threes, coming to join all the others in the stamping of feet and the tugging tight of thick woolen cloaks. Soon, it felt as if they were all there, or near enough as made no difference, near six-hundred brothers of the Night’s Watch, stamping and shivering and sniffling and coughing, waiting for the Old Bear to tell them what this was all about, pretending that they didn’t already know.

            When the Lord Commander heaved himself to his feet, there was no need to ask for silence. No one had said a word in all the time Sam had been standing with them.

            “Well,” the Lord Commander began, his deep, rumbling voice slicing through the silence, echoing back and forth across the yard, “here we are. The Night’s Watch. _The shield that guards the realms of men._ I think...I think we’ve all had occasion to ponder on the meaning of our vows of late.” The Lord Commander paused, and Sam wondered how many of his brothers could hear the scream of the thing that once was Jafer Flowers when Grenn shoved his torch through the thing’s face.

            “ _The sword in the darkness! The watcher on the walls! The fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men! **The shield that guards the realms of men!**_ For thousands of years, since long before the dragons came, _since long before even the Andals and their seven gods came,_ we have stood this post, _our post,_ and guarded the realms of men. Against what? Wildlings?” The Lord Commander sighed and shook his head. “I think we all know now, know beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the Wall was not raised against _wildlings._ ”

            He paused. Silence fell, and Sam watched as the thing that was Jafer Flowers snapped Ser Jaremy’s neck as if it was made of brittle glass. 

            “No, not wildlings, but _something else._ The Starks are more right than they know. _Winter is coming,_ and with it, _the Long Night._ The Others are almost upon us, lads, and they drive the wildlings before them. Out beyond,” the Lord Commander pointed up at the Wall, _beyond the Wall,_ “are things dragged kicking and screaming out of our deepest, darkest nightmares, _and it’s time we found out just what in the name of the gods is happening._ The wildlings know, _Mance Rayder knows,_ and it’s long past time we went out to ask him. So, in a few weeks time, that’s just what we’re going to do. A Great Ranging, the first in over a hundred years, one-hundred-and-fifty men. Fifty from the Shadow Tower, fifty from Eastwatch, _and fifty from here._ Our task will be to find Mance Rayder and his wildlings, to find him and find out _just what in the name of all that is good and decent is going on._ And then... _well, then we shall see, won’t we?”_

The Lord Commander turned to his sword, drew it out of the snow with a hiss. “This is Longclaw, the ancestral sword of my house, good, ancient Valyrian steel.” He walked back and forth before the assembled brothers, waving the sword to-and-fro. The steel was dark, almost black, and its ripples seemed to drink in what little sunlight peeked through the solid roof of clouds up above. “I will be one of those fifty, and Longclaw will be coming with me.” He walked to the far left end of the yard, pushed the tip of his sword into the snow, and drew it across the front of the assembled crows. Step-by-step, he carved a thin, uneven line in the snow, the only sound the hiss of the steel as it cut.

            When he reached the far right side of the yard, the Lord Commander drew his sword up, shook off the snow, slammed it back into its scabbard as he returned to stand before his stool. 

            “I need forty-nine men,” he said, spreading his hands. “Who is with me?”

            Sam closed his eyes, and Jon was there, the Jon from his nightmare.

            _I’m not coming back…_

_Stand on your own two feet…_

**_I’m not coming back…_ **

Sam opened his eyes, and looked out upon his brothers, near six-hundred wide, disbelieving eyes staring back at him. He didn’t remember moving, didn’t remember walking, _didn’t remember anything,_ but there he was, looking down at where his boots had trudged their way across the line in the snow. 

            A hand struck him on the back, hard enough to make Sam gasp and stagger. “I knew I could rely on you, Tarly,” the Lord Commander rumbled. The Old Bear smiled, slammed a hand into Sam’s back once more, looked up towards the assembled brothers. “Alliser! Glad you could join us.”

            Sam followed the Lord Commander’s gaze, his mouth dropping open as Ser Alliser Thorne strode across the line, flanked by Pyp and Grenn and trailed by a half-dozen brothers. “Well, if the our great and portly Lord Ham isn’t afraid to waddle beyond the Wall,” he growled, coming to a stop on the other side of the Lord Commander from Sam, his flinty eyes filled with something Sam could not quite make out, “then it can’t be that bad, can it?” Ser Alliser turned those eyes on Sam, nodded, looked back out on the assembled brothers. “Well? The craven and his idiot friends aren’t afraid to go. What does that say about the lot of you?”

            It didn’t take long to get the remaining forty-six after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interesting...
> 
> Well, a lot going on in this chapter, and the less said, the better, I think, other than to say that Mormont's speech went though...oh...six different versions before we got this one, but that's writing for you.
> 
> Oh, and to the dude who's all, You haven't changed anything asshole, well, I heard you the first half-dozen times. If you're not happy, don't read it. *shrugs* If you don't see how much has changed, I don't know what to do for you. 
> 
> Moving on! In Wednesday's episode, Catelyn's been better, you know? Stay tuned!


	57. The Septon

SEPTON RUD WAS AWAKENED BY THE SERVING GIRL, AS ALWAYS. The serving girl came every morning, to lay out water flavored with lemon, a bowl of porridge, and a haunch of bread. She would lay all of this out on the table Septon Rud kept under the window in his room, throw open the shutters, and, if he hadn’t woken up already, would give him a few gentle shakes until he did. Today was a time when he did not need to be shaken; the shriek of the hinges on his door was more than enough to pull him from his dreams. When she turned from the window, shutters thrown open on a sky turned pink by the promise of dawn, he was already sitting on the edge of his bed, slipping his feet into his slippers. As always, she saw he was awake and sank gently to her knees before him. He sighed, cracked his back, rose to his feet, and made the sign of the seven-pointed-star on her forehead, blessed for her service, called upon the Seven to watch over her as she went about her day. She murmured her thanks, made the sigh of the star over her breast, rose, and left, closing the door softly behind her, while Septon Rud fell to his own knees by his bed. His prayer beads clicked and clacked as he said his morning prayers, thanked the Stranger for sparing him one more day, made the sign of the star upon his own breast, and rose to his own feet, the better to move to his table under his window and break his fast.

            So it had always been, ever since he had come to Riverrun to serve as junior septon to Septon Rodner. Septon Rud rose alone, broke his fast alone, made his morning devotions alone. He liked the quiet, the still calm of morning as Riverrun came to life around him, liked the soft bed that he had all to himself. There were times, though, when he missed the novice’s barracks at the septry, missed Arren and Jaddon and Rass, his friends, times when he even missed his brothers. He had shared a room with his brothers, before he had been sent to begin his training. Tavion had been an early riser, had always delighted in rousting younger brothers with shouts and curses and, every once in a while, a loud, bawdy song. Tavion had been all but tonedeaf, of course, Bryer had once compared their older brother’s singing voice to that of _a cat being skinned alive, only worse,_ but there were times Septon Rud missed the sound, _if it could be called that,_ missed how he and Bryer would pelt Tavion with their pillows until he shut up.

            Today was not one of those days, though. Today, Septon Rud drank his lemon water, ate his porridge, sopped up the remnants with his bread, and did his best to think of nothing at all while he did it. When he was done, he made a neat little pile with the leavings, thanked the Seven for his bounty, and dressed. He peeled off his nightshirt, shrugged into his white robes. He carefully wrapped his seven-stranded belt around his waist, settled his crystal upon his chest, bowed his head to the coming dawn, and left his room, padding softly along hallways and around corners and down stairs until he came to the castle sept.

            Where he found the septs servants, shuffling their feet outside the door, looking uncomfortable. When they saw him, their eyes went wide, bowed, and began to babble excuses.

            Septon Rud stopped them with a raised hand, palm out. “Calm down,” he said, his voice kind, though still raspy from sleep. “What’s the problem? Korb?”

            The elder of the two servants, a wiry man with sharp, lined features, his beard and receding hair shot through with grey, rose from his bow, shifting a bucket of candlesticks from one hand to the other. “It’s just...Lady Stark is in there, see.”

            Septon Rud felt uncertainty twist his face. “Lady Stark? Not Lady Roslin?” The Bastard of Winterfell’s wife had oft been in the sept before dawn while her husband was away driving Lannisters and broken men from Stone Hedge and Raventree, beseeching the Mother for mercy, though Septon Rud had not missed how the Lady Roslin’s pre-dawn devotions had come to a screeching halt when her husband had returned. 

            Both servants shook theirs heads. “No, Septon Rud,” Korb replied. “If it was Lady Roslin, we’d just go on about our business, right?”

            The other servant, Korb’s son Clayse, bobbed his head up and down. “Lady Roslin never gets in the way of our work.”

            Septon Rud gave a nod, slow and thoughtful. “So, Lady Stark, then.” Lord Hoster’s favorite daughter had a fearsome reputation among the older servants, a reputation that had rubbed off on those who had known her when she was still a Tully. It was not a hard reputation, a legacy of petty cruelties and sharp words, no, that was Lady Lysa’s legacy, but Lady Stark still had a... _a look about her,_ an air of not suffering fools or disruptions. “She told you to stay out?”

            “Not in words,” Korb said, “but I saw her in there and thought we best wait for you.”

            Septon Rud nodded. “Yes, well, that was probably for the best.” Lady Stark had, after all, been through much over the past few months, endured much, and women could be ever so delicate, ever so fragile and... _emotional._ “Well, let me have a word with her, then.”

            Korb and his son bowed and thanked him, candlesticks and the like rattled and clacking in their buckets. Septon Rud acknowledged their thanks, made the sign of the star over them, blessed them for their service, pushed the door open, and strode into the sept.

            Septon Rud let the door swing shut behind him, allowed himself a moment of awe and wonder. Six years he had served at Riverrun, and yet, even now, the castle’s sept could still take his breath away. The holdfast he had grown up in had had no sept of its own; his family had made their devotions in the sept of the village outside, which was _just_ large enough to have a septon in residence. Even then, it had been a simple thing, the images of the Seven etched on plain rough stone. Riverrun’s sept was different, a fine, sandstone building resting in the middle of finely tended gardens. Each of the Seven had their own sconce, represented by carefully painted marble statues, and windows of colored glass bathed the nave with the colors of the rainbow when the sun rose into the sky.

            There were even times when Septon Rud allowed himself to dream of a day when _he_ would be the senior septon of this magnificent place of worship, though he would always beg the Father and the Mother to forgive him for his impertinence and pride afterwards.

            He found the Lady Catelyn Stark sitting upon the hard stone floor, her skirts pillowed around her, gazing up at the Crone. He watched her for a time, ever conscious of Korb and Clayse waiting anxiously just beyond the door. If it wasn’t for them, he probably would have just left Lady Stark to her... _whatever it was she was doing._ It was rare that people sat down before the Crone, and something told Septon Rud that Lady Stark had been sitting there for quite some time. Normally, it was young girls sitting before the Maiden prayed for good marriages, or knights praying before the Smith or the Warrior praying for courage and strength of arms, or even, when he had been capable of it, Lord Hoster, kneeling before the Father and praying for whatever it was that high lords prayed for.

            But Korb and Clayse were waiting, and the sept needed to be ready for morning devotions, so Septon Rud sighed, walked to where Lady Stark was sitting, settled himself on the floor beside her, and cleared his throat.

            “I don’t know your name.”

            Septon Rud wasn’t quite sure what he had been expecting, but it hadn’t been _that._ “I...I beg your pardon, my lady?”

            Lady Stark spared him not so much as a sideways glance. Her eyes remained locked on the Crone, and her face remained calm, still, as emotionless as if it had been carved from stone. “Your name, I don’t know it.”

            For a time, Septon Rud wasn’t entirely sure what to say. In that moment, he finally understood what the older servants meant when they said that Lord Hoster’s eldest daughter was a hard one to handle. “I…” He frowned, looked over his shoulder to the Smith and prayed for strength. He had uttered just one syllable, and yet it had come out cracked and high, the voice of a child. For a moment, he felt like a little boy, quivering in fright as Lord Rosby’s first wife glowered down upon him. It was only with a great effort that he shook the memories away. “My name is Rud, my lady.”

            If Lady Stark cared, or even truly knew he was there, she gave no sign, her eyes fixed ever more sharply upon the Crone. “You sound noble born, Septon Rud. What was your family name?”

            Septon Rud shifted and fidgeted. When he had settled himself upon the floor before Lady Stark, he had not expected to stay there long, and now he was cursing his lack of foresight. “Swygert, my lady. My father was a landed knight sworn to House Rosby.”

            “Was…?”

            “My father passed away three years ago, my lady.” Septon Rud’s heart twinged at the memory. He had gone on bended knee to Septon Alecor, the senior septon of Riverrun, had begged with tears in his eyes for leave to go home and be with his family in his father’s final moments, to lead the funeral services for his father. _And are there no septons in the Crownlands?_ Septon Alecor had snarled. _Your place is here, boy; Lord Hoster could leave us at any time, and I will need your assistance._

Septon Rud had said many prayers at the feet of the Warrior, begging for the strength to forgive Septon Alecor, in the days that followed. Tavion and Bryer had come out afterwards, told Septon Rud that they had no ill will towards him, that they understood, but that had only made Septon Rud angrier.

            Septon Rud swallowed his anger, fought back his tears of rage. “My brother holds the lands now,” he said, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. “He is still sworn to Lord Rosby.”

            “Did they fight in the Rebellion? Your father and your brothers?”

            _Where is this going? What is the purpose of this?_ Septon Rud pushed his questions aside, focused on Lady Stark and her words, tried not to wonder at the strange emotions warring across the woman’s face. “My father and my eldest brother did, my lady; Bryer squired for them.”

            “On which side?”

            Septon Rud felt a flash of anger, swallowed it. “They marched in Prince Rhaegar’s host, my lady.”

            Lady Stark looked away from the Crone for a moment, and Septon Rud found himself wishing she hadn’t. The blue in her eyes was washed out, and her face was puffy from what Septon Rud could only assume was a night of crying. “For the Mad King, then.”

            Septon Rud remembered asking his mother why his father fought for Aerys. _He does not fight for that madman,_ his mother had said, tears in her eyes as she gazed off towards the west. _He fights for Prince Rhaegar. Prince Rhaegar is an honorable man, and when this bucking stag is defeated, he will put the realm to rights._

            _Father came back, Father and Tavion and Bryer, though Tavion, Mother preserve him, came back missing an eye, a stained bandage wrapped around his face._

            _Father had tears in his eyes the next year, when he told me that he would not have any lands to give me. **The Seven or the Free Companies in Essos,** he told me. **I’m sorry, my boy, but that’s the way it is.** When I told him I would choose the Seven, he took me in his arms and begged my forgiveness. _

“For Prince Rhaegar,” he finally said, why, he did not know.

            Lady Stark looked him up and down, then turned away, back to the Crone. “For Prince Rhaegar...did you ever meet him?”

            “I did not have that honor, my lady. Father and my brothers, they went to Harrenhal for the tourney, they saw him, told me all about him, but I never saw him myself.”

            “The tourney...did they tell you of when he crowned Lyanna Stark the Queen of Love and Beauty?”

            _The moment all the smiles died…_ “Yes, my lady.”

            “And what did they think?”

            “That the Prince must have had his reasons, my lady.”

            “Yes... _his reasons..._ tell me, Septon Rud, what do you think the Mother would think of a woman who scorned a motherless child?”

            In an instant, Septon Rud knew that, somehow, someway, this had to do with Ser Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell. _Thank the Seven Lord Hoster is not well enough to see this,_ Septon Alecor had said, as they’d watched Robert Stark ride into the yard of Riverrun, his bastard brother riding right beside him. _His rage would know no bounds._ Septon Rud hadn’t known what to make of that, so he’d bowed his head and muttered something that sounded like agreement. 

            None of that answered Lady Stark’s question, though.

            “The Mother...the Mother commands us all to mercy and forgiveness, my lady, yet in her own infinite mercy, understands that we are only human.”

            Lady Stark closed her eyes, and Septon Rud watched, spellbound, as a tear sprang to life in the corner of one eye and fell, carving a path down her cheek to quiver for a moment on her chin before falling into her skirts. “And what do the Seven say about godless men? Can they speak true, or are their words only lies?”

            “ _The ways of the Seven are infinite and unknowable,_ ” he quoted from _The Seven-Pointed Star,_ “ _and their wisdom is oft difficult to discern._ Even the godless are but tools of the Seven-Who-Are-One, my lady, for all that they may deny it.”

            Lady Stark’s eyes snapped open, and the tears feel like rain. “ _So, he spoke true, then...I always knew...I always knew...shame on me...I always knew…”_

Septon Rud didn’t understand, but he was a septon, so he reached out, laid a hand on Lady Stark’s shoulder. “My lady…?”

            She looked at him, but her eyes were not the same. They were still washed out, red-rimmed, but now they were... _almost kind, and infinitely sad._ “My lord husband lied to me, Septon Rud. My lord husband, whom I loved with all my heart, lied to me, and now it seems it falls to me, the last person in the world who has the right to do it, to correct his mistake.” Her hand came up, squeezed his own hand upon her shoulder, pushed it gently aside. “And there’s no time like the present, I suppose.” She rose in a swish of skirts, brushed out the wrinkles of a night upon the stones. “I spoke to Septon Alecor the other day, asking for a septa to come and speak with Lady Roslin…”

            The change in subject sent Septon Rud’s mind reeling so hard he felt a little dizzy; it took the effort of rising to his feet and brushing out of his own wrinkles from his own robes before he felt sure enough of his tongue to answer. “He spoke to me of it, my lady. Someone from the motherhouse should be arriving today or tomorrow.”

            Lady Stark’s mouth twisted into something akin to a smile. “Good...the poor girl has been greensick the past few mornings, poor lamb…”

            Septon Rud had noticed that, the last time he’d found the Lady Roslin kneeling before the Mother before morning devotions, she’d looked somewhat _green around the gills,_ as his mother had been fond of saying, but for reasons he didn’t fully understand, he didn’t feel comfortable commenting on it just now. “I pray to the Mother and Maiden for good news, my lady. The Lady Roslin is a kind, gentle soul.”

            Lady Stark nodded. “Yes, she is...though she does not deserve what is about to happen to her.” She paused, regarded the Crone for what felt like a long time, and gave the statue a deep, long bow. When she rose, she turned on Septon Rud, and though her eyes were still puffy, washed out, and shot through with red, they were... _they were determined,_ determined as Septon Rud had never seen before.

            “Do you know if my...my son and his... _brother,_ are breaking their fast?”

            Septon Rud looked to the windows, gauged the position of the sun in the sky. “Lord Robert oft breaks his fast early with his lords; I have no doubt that...um...that _Ser Jon_ will be-”

            “Sitting at his right hand,” Lady Stark finished, “where he should be, for all that I spent the past eight-and-ten years blind to it. If you would be so kind, send a man to the Great Hall, ask them to meet me in the godswood, _immediately._ Even if Robb doesn’t want to come, Jon will make him.” She turned on her heel, started to walk to the door, stopped with her hand on the handle.

            “And when the septa has come and examined the Lady Roslin, kindly send her straight to me, no matter where I am. Understood?”

            Septon Rud didn’t understand at all, but he knew how to obey. The Seven had taught him so. “Understood, my lady,” he said, bowing.

            For a moment, she looked like she was about to say something else, but she just shook her head, swung the door open, and left Septon Rud standing in the gathering silence, a thousand-thousand questions roaring in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ruh roh...
> 
> Hey Morgan, you may ask, are you dragging out the denouement of this story? To that, I say, Well, yeah, a bit, I guess? I was gonna skip straight into Catelyn telling Jon and Robb everything Jaime told her and that she, over years and years and years of wondering, has finally managed to put together, but I just...I really felt like this moment needed to put put out there. Catelyn is, in her own way, very devout, and the Crone is the aspect of the Seven-Who-Are-One who is most associated with asking for wisdom and guidance. In a rage, she stormed out of Jaime's cell, found herself in the sept, and fell to his knees before the Crone.
> 
> Woman had a lot of thinking to do, you know?
> 
> I mentioned that the chapters were taking place closer together, timewise, and that's very true. The past few chapters and next few are going to take place over about a week of in-story time, and shit's gonna get real.
> 
> Moving on! In Friday's episode, revelations and questions. Stay tuned!


	58. Jon

DARYN WAS WAITING FOR HIM, LOUNGING AGAINST A WALL AND MUNCHING AN APPLE. Jon was hungry, anxious, _troubled,_ but nonetheless he was happy to see the newly minted Lord Hornwood. When Jon had left Last Hearth and made his farewells to Sam, Pyp, and Grenn, a part of him, a part far larger than he would ever admit, had feared that he would never make another friend. Friendship had never come easy to Jon; too many feared to be seen by Lady Stark becoming close to the Bastard of Winterfell, and Jon’s own insecurities took care of the rest. It had been too easy to become ensconced in his appointed _role,_ too easy to cloak himself in brooding silence and accept that Robb would be his only friend. Even at the Wall, it had been hard to make friends, though that was mostly his own doing; it was difficult to think of how he’d been when he’d first arrived, before Donal Noye had pulled him aside and upbraided him with harsh truths, without burning from shame. 

            Exchanging warm words and friendly embraces with Daryn Hornwood, though, was a reminder that there might just be a place for him outside the Watch, a place filled with his brother’s love and Roslin’s arms and the warmth of friendship forged in the fires of war.

            “I’m surprised to see you out here,” Jon said, giving Daryn’s shoulders a squeeze before they stepped apart. “Shouldn’t you be inside, stuffing your face and sucking up to my brother?”

            Daryn laughed, shaking his head. “Aye, I should, and yet, here I am, waiting for your bony arse.” They shared a laugh at that; Jon was thin, yes, but Daryn Hornwood was thinner, almost scrawny. That similarity was part of what made them such good sparring partners in the yard. Robb, gods love him, was bigger, brawnier; he relied on strength and force. Ser Rodrik, though, had trained Jon to use his size, to be quick and deft of foot, and with Daryn, Jon could work on being even quicker, _even defter._

            “Well,” Jon said, gesturing at the door through which various lords and knights and captains were filtering into the hall to break their fast, “shall we?”

            “In a moment,” Daryn replied. “I wasn’t waiting out here for my health, you know.” Daryn paused, taking a big bite from his apple and raking Jon up and down with his eyes as he chewed and swallowed. “Is aught amiss, Jon? You seem troubled.”

            Jon felt his face fall, felt the cold bite of anxiety rush back into his heart. Truth was, he _was_ troubled. Roslin had thrown up again that morning; Jon had woken up to his wife bent over the chamber pot, heaving her guts out, tears flowing down her face. And there were other problems, too. Roslin could no longer abide foods with strong flavors or strong smells, ate naught but plain porridge and plain bread, drank naught but water. And she was so _emotional,_ bursting into tears at random, and when Jon would escort her to sept for morning prayers, she would make straight for the Mother.

            _You must let me send for Maester Vyman,_ he had begged her, helping her back into bed and pressing a cold compress to her forehead, carefully dabbing away the sweat and the tears.

            She’d refused, she always refused. _It’s not a maester I need, Jon,_ she said, smiling, clinging to his hand as if he was a piece of driftwood in a storm. _At least, not yet._ She’d had to threaten to clout him in the ear with a chair before he’d finally agreed to dress and come down to the great hall to break his fast with Robb and their father’s lords, and even now, all he wanted to do was bolt down whatever food was placed before him and rush back to his wife. 

            All he wanted to do was hold her and be with her, as he wondered, as he so often did of late, if it was love that he felt. It was so hard to know such things; it made him anxious, uncomfortable, _as awkward as a newborn duckling fresh from the nest._

Not that he could say any of that to Daryn; he was afraid to say a tenth of it even to Robb. “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, trying to sound casual and flippant, knowing he was failing, happy that Daryn didn’t yet know him well enough to see through the act, _or so he hoped,_ “just that Roslin wasn’t feeling well today.”

            Daryn’s eyebrow popped up. “Women’s troubles?”

            Jon shrugged, rubbed the back of his neck as he looked away and tried not to blush. “Mayhaps.” He gave himself a shake, pushed his worries and anxieties away, turned back to Daryn with what he hoped was an easy smile on his face. _How does Theon do it? The ironborn wanker could look cool and casual on the gibbet, I swear._ “What was it you needed to speak to me about?”

            Daryn sighed, taking a final few bites from his apple and tossing the pit over his shoulder. “It’s Ned, I’m afraid. His father means to send him back to Karhold.”

            Jon grimaced. “It’s the right thing to do.” It truly was. With Harion captured and Torrhen dead, _and gods damn me for not being quick enough,_ it made sense for Lord Karstark to send his remaining son back north. Rumor had it that Lord Karstark had arranged for Eddard to marry one of the Manderly girls; no doubt the hope was that Eddard Karstark would wed and bed and sire a son as quick as possible. Harion had a wife, a Glover, if Jon remembered well, a wife and a daughter, with another babe on the way last they had heard, but even so, House Karstark hung by thread. 

            “It might well be,” Daryn allowed, leaning back against the wall, a casual hand resting on the hilt of his sword, “but you know Ned. He’s desperate not to be packed off back north with those too wounded to keep fighting. He owes you the same debt that I do, and he’s anxious to repay it.”

            Jon felt anger bubble deep in his gut. He’d tried to release Eddard Karstark from any _life debt and_ found that such efforts worked as well with Eddard as they had with Daryn. Jon would never forget the victory feast after the Battle of the Camps, when he’d fallen to his knees before Lord Karstark and begged forgiveness for not being quick enough to save Torrhen, would never forget his shock when Lord Karstark, tears in his eyes, had pulled Jon to his feet and embraced him so hard Jon’s ribs had ached by the end of it. _If it wasn’t for you, my boy, I’d have lost two sons, not one, and a future son-in-law to boot,_ Lord Karstark had said, voice thick and shaky with grief. _You have nothing to beg forgiveness for._

 _And then Ned fell to his knees and said that he owed me his life,_ Jon remembered with white hot shame. _Me, who watched as the Kingslayer tore his brother’s life from his throat._

            _Would I so easily forgive the man who failed to save my brother’s life?_ Jon didn’t know and hoped he never would.

            “Ned wants me to speak to Robb,” Jon said, rubbing his eyes.

            Daryn looked at him with kind, sympathetic eyes, laid a hand on Jon’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself for Torrhen...and yes, Ned hopes you’ll speak to Robb on his behalf.”

            Jon nodded, gave his eyes a final rub, turned back to his friend. “I’ll...I’ll do what I can. I can’t promise anything, if Lord Karstark is determined, Robb will not gainsay him. But…” Jon’s mind worked, hard and fast. _Something...something...and who knows? Mayhaps Ned will accept this as payment for his so-called **debt.**_ “Robb is going to spar with us today. Tell Ned to join us, and he can speak to Robb without his lord father glowering over his shoulder.”

            Daryn gave Jon’s shoulder a final squeeze and released him. “That’s a good idea, Jon. I’ll tell him.” He threw his arm around Jon’s shoulders, steered him towards the door. “For now, though, I think I smell bacon, and I’ve a mind to down a whole rasher all for myself. In fact-”

            Just then, Robb appeared in the doorway, a strange, befuddled look on his face. Jon and Daryn stepped away from each other and bowed, Daryn muttering _my lord_ and Jon muttering _brother._ They rose in time to watch a look of relief wash over Robb’s face.

            “Oh, good,” Robb said, a strange tension seeming to leave him, “I was hoping I’d find you out here, Jon. I was afraid I’d find you still abed with your lady wife.”

            “Roslin is feeling under the weather today, Robb,” Jon said, giving his brother a look that said, _What’s happened? What’s amiss?_ “Just me this morning, I’m afraid.”

            Robb gave a short, sharp nod, his own face speaking back in the secret language of brothers, saying, _Gods if I know._ “Just as well. My mother has sent for us, it seems; she awaits us in the godswood.”

            The words hit Jon like a sack of bricks to the face. “ _Both_ of us, Robb?”

            Robb shrugged, spreading his hands wide. “Your guess is as good as mine, Jon. All I know is that it’s urgent, and that she wants us both.”

            “Well,” Jon said, mind reeling, resisting the urge to rock back on his heels in surprise, “we’d best not keep her waiting, then.” He turned to Daryn. “Sorry; you’ll have to eat without me.”

            Daryn flashed his trademark grin. “A shame. I’ll save some bacon for you.”

            Jon rolled his eyes. “No, you won’t.”

            Daryn’s grin grew wider. “I’ll think about it, at least. Remember what we spoke of, Jon.” He turned to Robb, bowed. “My lord,” he said, and with that, he went into the great hall.

            They were well away from the entryway to the great hall, halfway to the godswood, before Robb spoke. “What did Daryn speak to you about?”

            “You know what he was speaking to me about, Robb.”

            Robb made a face. “Eddard Karstark. Lord Rickard has already stolen a march on you.”

            Jon had suspected as much, but he felt a duty to press on. Ned had not become his friend as Daryn had, but a debt was a debt, a promise a promise, _an oath an oath._ “Ned’s desperate not to be sent home, Robb.”

            Robb took this in, his _Lord’s Face_ on. “Aye...and I’d like to indulge him, but Lord Rickard is determined, and his reasons are sound.”

            They walked on for a time, ducking and weaving around servants and knights and men-at-arms, almost in perfect lockstep. “Aye, I understand, it’s just...mayhaps there’s a way we could make it sting a bit less…?”

            “You might be onto something, Jon. We’ll have to put our heads together and think on it.”

            “Mayhaps you can think on it with Ned himself; I asked Daryn to ask Ned if he would spar with us today. Mayhaps it will be easier to work something out, without Lord Karstark hovering over our shoulders.”

            Robb nodded, lips pursed in thought. “Aye...as I said, we’ll think on it. First, let us find out what my mother wants.”

            They walked on, the echoes of their footsteps blending until it seemed as if one man walked the halls, rather than two.

            They found Lady Stark in the godswood, sitting upon the grass, gazing up at the slender, pitiful excuse for a weirwood tree. Everything about the godswood felt...well... _wrong,_ to Jon, as he knew it was for Robb and the other northmen. Winterfell’s godswood was old, shrouded in shadow even on a bright summer’s day, the air thick and musty with age and history. This godswood was something else, bright and airy, filled with elms and redwoods and light, delicate wildflowers, birds singing as they fluttered from branch-to-branch. Even the weirwood was wrong, tiny and shrunken, a pitiful thing compared to the glowering monster that loomed at the heart of Winterfell, its face carved by human hands, not even the faintest memory of the Children of the Forest to be found.

            And yet, the old gods were there, faint, distant, hardly more than a whisper of the wind, but they were there, so Jon joined his brother in kneeling before the weirwood and whispering faint prayers after they had entered.

            It was only when they had stepped into spots in front of Lady Stark, only when they had bowed and muttered their courtesies, that Jon realized that something was wrong. Every inch of Lady Stark radiated exhaustion, care, _rage, even._ Her eyes were rimmed with red, the blue washed out, and she seemed to have aged ten years since the night before.

            For the first time since he could remember, Jon realized with a shock, Lady Catelyn Stark looked...well... _human,_ to his eyes, at least, and when she spoke, it was even worse.

            “Do you know, Jon,” she said, eyes locked on the weirwood, her voice thin and raspy, “when you were but a babe, your eyes were purple.”

            Jon turned to Robb, found his own look of bewilderment reflected on his brother’s face. They shrugged at each other, leaving Jon to turn back to Lady Stark. “My lady…?”

            Lady Stark sighed, a great big heaving thing, and she closed her eyes. Jon was glad for that; she looked more like Lady Stark with her eyes closed.

            The sensation of the ground shifting beneath his feet wasn’t so strong, when Lady Stark looked like Lady Stark.

            “Well, maybe not _purple,_ but...but _violet,_ a dark, shimmering violet. That’s why I was so ready to believe that your mother was Ashara Dayne. Her haunting violet eyes were varying degrees of famous and infamous all through the Seven Kingdoms, her haunting violet eyes and her haunting beauty. Rumor had it that she was seen slipping out of one of the Stark tents during the tourney at Harrenhal, so when I heard the whispers that Ashara Dayne was your mother, I leapt at the explanation. It would be just like your father, to sire a bastard on a highborn young lady and then take the bastard north with him, to guard the bastard’s life and identity to the grave. Ned can be... _can make honor a sin, rather than a virtue._ It just... _it would’ve been so like him._ And yet, when I asked him, _demanded an answer,_ he looked at me with eyes I did not know and for the first  and only time in our lives together, I was afraid of him. _Jon is my blood, and that is all you need to know,_ he said, and I never heard the name _Ashara Dayne_ whispered in the halls of Winterfell, ever again.”

            Jon slumped back against the weirwood tree. He had to. For the first time that he could remember, Lady Stark was speaking to him, not sneering at him or talking around him or glaring at him but _speaking to him,_ speaking to him as a person, _as a human,_ and when she said the word _bastard,_ it did not sound like the crack of whip, did not string and ache and _burn._

            For the first time in his life, Jon felt as if Lady Stark saw him, acknowledged him, _accepted him,_ and he hadn’t the faintest clue what to do with any of it. If the Lady Stark had suddenly screeched and turned into a dragon that flew away, burning Riverrun to ashes in her wake, Jon would have found it easier to accept than _this._

            In the meantime, Lady Stark had opened her eyes, eyes that she locked on Jon, eyes that looked as if she was seeing Jon, _truly seeing him,_ for the very first time.

            It was only then that Jon became aware of the open book in her lap.

            “Last night,” she continued, as if there had been no pause, as if tears were not trickling down her cheeks, “I spoke to the Kingslayer. This morning, I spoke to Septon Rud, the junior septon here, and he gave me much wisdom, much comfort, for all that he hadn’t the faintest idea what I was talking about. After I left the sept, I found myself in my father’s solar. I sat at my father’s side for a time, watched him sleep, listened to him mutter in his dreams, and then I found myself walking to the shelves, watched, as if from afar, as I pulled down this book and opened it.” She picked the book up, held it out to Jon. “Take it.”

            Jon took it, almost dropped it, his hands were trembling so. “What is it?” he asked.

            “A history of the First Blackfyre Rebellion.”

            From off to Jon’s side, Robb groaned. “Gods, Mother, not _that_ again.”

            “ _Don’t start with me,”_ Lady Stark snapped. “If you worry that I’ll try and make you send Jon away, have no fear. You were right and I was wrong, you hear me, Robb? _You were right and I was wrong._ Jon should _never_ have been sent to the Wall, and I will be begging the Mother for mercy and forgiveness for all the remaining days of my life for the way I’ve treated him.” She didn’t give Robb a chance to reply, turned the full bore of her gaze on Jon. “Look at the picture, Jon.”

            Jon couldn’t think of a thing to say, the faint whisper of words stuck in his throat, so he looked. He saw an image of a man, the picture carefully and brilliantly illuminated. The man had dark brown hair, almost black, just like Jon’s own, with dark, almost unnaturally grey eyes, _just like Jon’s own._ The man could’ve passed for... _not Jon’s father, or brother, but a cousin, a **close** cousin. _

            Jon looked upon the face and saw glimmers of his own. His eyes drifted down to the caption and felt his heart fall through the soles of his boots, for reasons he did not understand, _was afraid to, for more reasons he did not understand._ “This is an image of Baelor Targaryen.”

            “Baelor Breakspear?” Robb said, leaning over Jon’s shoulder. “The hammer and the anvil?”

            “Maekar Targaryen was the anvil,” Jon said, reciting half-remembered lessons, “and Baelor was the hammer. They broke the remnants of Daemon Blackfyre’s host between them on the Redgrass Field.”

            “Maekar killed him, didn’t he?” Robb asked. “At the trial of seven at Ashford. Maekar cracked his brother’s skull during the fight.”

            “Aye,” Jon said, ice flooding his veins, “he did.” _This is Maester Aemon’s uncle,_ he thought. _This is an image of the man who should’ve been king._

_And he looks as if he could be my close kin._

He slammed the book closed, let it drop with a soft _thud_ into the grass as he met Lady Stark’s gaze. “What is the meaning of this? What are you trying to tell me?”

            Lady Stark sighed but did not look away.

            “You are my husband’s blood,” she said, “but not his son. You are his nephew. Lyanna Stark was your mother, Rhaegar Targaryen your father.”

            She looked away, swallowed. Jon watched as the muscles in her neck clenched and released, clenched and released, watched as her hands clutched at her skirts.

            “The Kingslayer saw your father in you; that’s what shocked him so. And now that he’s opened my eyes, godless cretin that he is, I cannot understand how I failed to see it for so long. It shouldn’t be I who tells you this, it should be Ned, and yet here I am, me, the last person in the Seven Kingdoms with the right to tell you any of it.” She looked back to him, and Jon saw the truth blazing from her eyes.

            “It’s true, though, Jon. Gods help me, _Mother forgive me,_ it’s true.”

            Jon couldn’t speak. There was a roaring in his ears, his throat had gone dry, his knees felt as if they were made of rubber. He wanted to cry, to scream, to ride to King’s Landing and demand the man he had always assumed was his father give him answers. _Next I see you, we’ll speak of your mother._

_How could you, Father?_

**_How could you?_ **

“You’re still my brother.”

            Jon turned to Robb, was shocked to find that his sight had gone hazy, _watery. When did I start crying?_

_Why do I believe this?_

_Why does it make so much sense?_

Robb reached out, took Jon by the shoulders, pulled him close, embraced him as if Robb was afraid he would never embrace Jon again.

            “Cousin or not, true or not, you’re still my brother,” Robb growled into Jon’s ear. “And bugger anyone who says otherwise.”

            The dam burst. Jon couldn’t hold it back any longer. The dam burst, tears flooded from his eyes, and he buried his face in his brother’s shoulder and sobbed like a child.

            When Lady Stark stepped up to them, sobbing enough for the both of them, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to pull her into the embrace, the better to sob together.

            That was how the septa found them, when the septa had just finished examining Roslin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awwwww shit...
> 
> Let's not ruin this chapter with commentary. Let's just press on.
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, a strange man comes to Master Mott's shop. Stay tuned!


	59. Arya

SHE HATED CLEANING THE OVEN. Out of all the varied, often tedious tasks she was called upon to perform as the junior serving girl in Master Mott’s shop, cleaning the oven was easily the worst. It would have been bad enough if she’d only had to clean the outside, scrubbing the grates and scraping soot off the backsplash until her whole body was sore. But _no,_ Jeyne was still small and nimble, which meant that it was her task to crawl inside the oven and scrape and scrub and clean. Old Sybilla made them clean the oven twice a week, and even then, the bowels of the oven were always an unholy mess of hardened grease and bits of blackened food and billowing clouds of ash and layer upon layer of soot. She never started until it had cooled from the morning meal, and she always stripped down to her smallclothes before she crawled in, but that didn’t stop it from being hideously hot. By the time she finished, she would crawl out feeling like a demon slithering out of hell. She would be caked in filth, filth that congealed with her sweat into something she didn’t like to think about, and she would always spend the rest of the day coughing up only the gods knew what. Even her nightsoil would be the color of days-old grease and soot for at least a day after she was done, and eating became a trial, for everything tasted of the stray bits of ash she could feel grinding between her teeth. 

            The only benefit was that Old Sybilla always had Willow draw a bath for her and would let Jeyne take as long as she needed to scrub everything off before going back to work, though even that had its drawbacks. After all, the washing tub stayed in a room down the hall from the kitchen, leaving Jeyne to make what always felt like a long walk of shame, barely able to even open her eyes. It did have its bright spots, though, that walk. Sometimes, Rass, one of the junior apprentices, would happen by and take the opportunity to make some sort of crack about Jeyne’s small breasts, typically something along the lines of, _Seven hells, Jeyne, are you sure you’re three-and-ten? I know babes still on the breast with bigger teats than you._ Naturally, Jeyne would take her own opportunity, unloading all the frustrations of the morning-long process of cleaning the oven down upon his head, until the boy went scampering off to spend the rest of the day avoiding her. It made her wonder why he always made the joke when he could, if it always ended in him running away on the verge of tears. Willow thought it was because Rass liked her, but Jeyne doubted it. Boys were stupid, but surely, they weren’t _that_ stupid.

            _Right?_

Today, though, Rass did not appear, which was good, she supposed; her profane tirades at the boy tended to earn her a few strokes of the birch for foul language if Old Sybilla heard her, though only if there were customers in the front of the shop who might overhear.

            Old Sybilla had long since given up on trying to make Jeyne stop swearing so much. _She really shouldn’t complain,_ Jeyne thought, as she felt her way down the hall towards the washroom. _After all, she’s more than happy to make use of my abrasive nature and foul mouth when grocery day comes around._ Then, Old Sybilla would praise and encourage her, taking a strange pride in being known for having the meanest, foulest-mouthed serving girl on the Street of Steel.

            She was stopped at the door to the washroom by the sound of Willow’s giggles. _Gods be good,_ Jeyne groaned to herself, _she’s gotten Gendry to draw the bath again. Gods help me._ Jeyne didn’t understand why Gendry was always doing random chores for Willow, or how Willow managed to get him to do them. True, filling the wash basin was tedious, hard work, but Willow was _perfectly_ capable of drawing the bath on her own, Willow was one of the strongest girls Jeyne had ever known. _But no, she wants to sit on her stool and coo over Gendry’s muscles._

_It’s not even like Gendry’s that good looking. Rass is far more comely, even if he is stupid…_

In the end, though, she _needed_ that bath, Old Sybilla never swung the birch quite so hard as when Jeyne or Willow tried to serve a meal while dirty, so Jeyne sighed and stepped into the washroom, pausing in the doorway to snarl, “Am I interrupting something?”

            The responses were typical. Willow giggled, while Gendry turned red from head-to-toe and started stammering something stupid, _Gendry was always stammering and making a fool of himself, **especially** when Willow was around. _Normally, Jeyne waited until he ran out of steam and got control of himself, but today was not a normal day. _I didn’t even get to yell at Rass._ “I always thought no one was worse around girls than my brother,” Jeyne said, rolling her eyes and letting Willow guide her to the wash basin, “and yet, somehow, you exist.”

            Gendry stammered and stuttered until he finally managed to say, “You’ve got brothers, Jeyne?”

            “Four of them,” Willow said, as she helped Jeyne out of her smallclothes and into the basin, “though one’s only a cousin, right?”

            Jeyne nodded, though she didn’t answer until after she had dunked her whole body beneath the water and scrubbed the soot and grease from her eyes. Life, she decided when she came back up, looked much better when it wasn’t being seen through a haze of ash. “Aye,” she said, taking the brush Willow handed her and setting to scrubbing the dirt and the dust and the soot from every conceivable nook and cranny of her body. “Jon was my uncle’s son, but my uncle died fighting in King Robert’s rebellion and his wife died birthing him, so Father took him in and raised him as his own.”

            _Why did you say that?_ a voice whispered, deep in the darkest corners of Jeyne’s mind, the corners where her name was still _Arya Stark. Where did **that** come from?_

            She pushed the voice back into its corner. She wasn’t Arya Stark anymore, she was _Jeyne,_ a serving girl on the Street of Steel.

            And if, sometimes, once everyone was asleep, she took Needle out of its hiding place and danced the water dance by the light of the moon, well, that was no one’s business but hers.

            “A shame when that happens,” Gendry said, slumping back against the wall, _right next to where Willow was sitting on her stool,_ Jeyne didn’t fail to notice, just as Jeyne didn’t fail to notice that Willow was twirling strands of hair around her fingers and smiling like Hodor during a harvest feast. “That’s why Javor and Duncas act more like brothers than cousins sometimes.”

            No one made any further comment about that. Duncas was a product of the Sack, and King’s Landers didn’t talk about the Sack if they could avoid it. Instead, Jeyne took a moment to let out a rib cracking sneeze, making a face at the black dust that came out and speckled her hand before she washed it away. “How did you clean that fucking thing before you plucked me off the streets, Willow?”

            “Actually,” Willow said, “that’s part of the reason why Old Sybilla had me out looking for a girl. I’d gotten too big, and Old Sybilla was tired of shelling out coppers to Old Annalys down the way so _her_ junior girl could come and do it.”

            Jeyne made a face. “Gods, that old hag can be cheap.”

            Gendry immediately turned the color of curdled milk, leaning over to spare a quick glance up the hall. “Careful, Jeyne, you’d best not let Old Sybilla hear you call her that.”

            Jeyne shrugged as she started scrubbing between her legs. “Why not? I’ve said it to her face often enough.”

            Gendry rolled his eyes. “And gotten a good clout to the ears every time.”

            “Meh, some lumps are worth more than others.”

            Willow giggled. “I swear, Jeyne, you are the most insolent servant the Seven ever saw fit inflict upon the Seven Kingdoms. You should thank the gods Old Sybilla loves you so much. How did you ever survive in Lord Stark’s household?”

            Jeyne paused, ignoring Willow’s comment about Old Sybilla, _Willow was always saying that Jeyne was Old Sybilla’s favorite, not that Jeyne believed it,_ instead pursing her lips in thought as she lifted a foot out of the water and started scrubbing between the toes. “You know, funny you should mention that, one time-”

            “Oh, good,” Hob said as he stomped into the room and skidded to a stop, looking first at Jeyne in her bath, then at Gendry, who had resumed lounging against the wall next to Willow, “you’re both here.”

            “Gods, Hob,” Jeyne snarled, “just barge in, why don’t you?”

            Hob shot her the V. “Oh, stuff it, Jeyne. Master Mott wants you in the showroom, you and Gendry both.”

            Willow slid off her stool, pausing to brush wrinkles from her skirts. “Jeyne just finished cleaning the oven, it’ll be a bit before she’s presentable. I’ll serve.” No one commented on Master Mott wanting Gendry; even Hob freely admitted that Gendry was the best smith in the shop, possibly the best smith on the Street of Steel. Whenever a customer wanted to meet the apprentice who’d fashioned a particularly fine piece, the odds were good it was Gendry who’d done the hammering.

            Hob, though, shook his head. “Sorry, Willow; Master Mott asked for Jeyne by name.”

            Gendry frowned. “What’d he want Jeyne for? No offense, Jeyne.”

            Jeyne waved the comment aside with her brush. “None taken. Well, Hob?”

            Hob just shrugged, already on his way out. “Beats me, he asked, I fetched. Now, get a move on, you two, you know Master Mott doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

            That was true enough, so Jeyne flung curses at Hob’s retreating back, even as she set to scrubbing twice as fierce as before, while Gendry followed Hob and Willow laid out towel and fresh clothes.

            It wasn’t long after that Jeyne stepped into the showroom, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. She’d done her best, and Willow had helped, but truth be told, Jeyne was _far_ from presentable. Her hair was still damp enough to leave moisture seeping through the kerchief around her head, and when she paused to check herself in the polished sheet of brass that hung on the wall outside the showroom for just that purpose, she found a smudge of damp soot on her cheek that she was still scrubbing off as she went to stand next to Gendry and curtsy to Master Mott and his visitor.

            The first indication that something was wrong was Master Mott himself. He was obviously agitated, fidgeting like a child at table in his chair, a deep scowl on his face, and when he spoke, the Qohorik accent he tried so hard to temper was thick and irritable. “Well,” he said, and to Jeyne’s ears, he sounded as if he was one step away from exploding in rage, “you asked, and here she is. Jeyne, our junior serving girl.” He slumped back in his chair, glaring at his visitor as he took a deep gulp from the cup in his hand. “Sybilla, my housekeeper, speaks very highly of her. A bit insolent, but a very hard worker.”

            “A bit insolent, eh?” the visitor said, lounging in his own chair with a kind of careless ease. “I can well imagine.”

            The visitor instantly set the hackles on the back of Jeyne’s neck on end. To all appearances, he was nothing more than a simple merchant, mid-tier at best, his clothes fine, but not rich. His jowly face was buried beneath a thick, well-trimmed beard, and his accent was somewhere between Flea Bottom and Aegon’s Hill, as if he had been born in the stews before spending a lifetime trying to round the edges off.

            _Other men were stronger, faster, younger,_ said a voice from deep down a bottomless well, half-remembered lessons from a previous life, _why was Syrio Forel the best? I will tell you now. The seeing, the true seeing, that is the heart of it._

_The seeing, **the true seeing…**_

Jeyne looked the visitor up and down, and knew, for reasons she could not easily explain, that he was not all he seemed. _This man is a liar, from head to toe._ And worst of all, when she finally met his gaze, saw the bemused twinkle deep in his beady little eyes, she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he knew that she saw right through him.

            Beside her, Gendry gasped. “You...you’re the man who pays my apprenticeship fees.”

            The visitor bowed his head. “I have that honor. I knew your father well, lad; he wished for your future to be seen to.”

            _Liar,_ the voices screamed in Jeyne’s head. _Liar liar **LIAR**_.

            “My mother said my father was a drunkard and a pig,” Gendry said, sounding sullen and churlish, as he always did when he had to speak of his father.

            The visitor sipped from his cup and sighed. “Well, she had a point, I’m afraid, but he was not without a strange sort of honor. Alas,” he took a final sip from his cup, set it carefully on the table beside his chair, “I’m afraid your days of smithing are done, at least for the nonce. Pack your bags, lad, you’re coming with me.”

            Master Mott shot from his chair, vibrating with barely suppressed rage. “You promised to let me speak to him first, you-” Jeyne didn’t understand the rest of what Master Mott said, for it was in snarled in the bastard Valyrian of Qohor; whatever it was, though, it did not sound kind. 

            If the visitor was bothered by Master Mott’s outburst, though, he did not show it. “Time is of the essence, I’m afraid. A certain... _woman,_ shall we say, has asked me to find certain children with certain, shall we say... _traits,_ with a certain, well, _shared background._ I have already seen to the others, but our young Gendry, I’m afraid, will require...well... _more drastic measures.”_

Master Mott snarled something in bastard Valyrian, stormed away, only came back after punching the wall a few times. “Why should she care? The boy’s done nothing wrong; he’s a good lad, is no threat to anyone. I don’t even care about his fees; he more than earns his own way with his work.”

            The visitor shrugged. “Mayhaps he does, mayhaps he doesn’t. The point is, he’s not safe. If you care for him, you’ll let him go.”

            Gendry turned to Master Mott, shaking like a child just woken from a bad dream, tears in his eyes. That was the most shocking thing, the tears. Once, Jeyne had seen Gendry burn himself on his forge. The boy had cursed a blue streak, but he hadn’t shed a single tear.

            “Master...please...I don’t want to go…”

            Master Mott reached out, took Gendry in his arms, hugged him as if Gendry was his own trueborn son. “And I don’t want you to go...but if... _if my visitor_ says you’re not safe, you’re not safe.” He gave Gendry a final squeeze, pushed him away. “Go on, lad, pack your bag, take whatever you want. Mayhaps, when everything is settled, you can come back; there will always be a place for you here.” He released Gendry, rounded on the visitor. “Though what you need with Jeyne, I doubt even the Black Goat knows. She’s just a serving girl; Willow found her on the streets. Leave her, at least.”

            The visitor sighed as he heaved himself up out of the chair, clasping his hands at his waist. “Alas, I’m afraid she must come, too. Lord Stark will be confessing his treasons on the steps of the Great Sept two days hence, and then prisoner exchanges will begin. No doubt Winterfell will be requesting the return of any surviving members of his household.”

            “But...Jeyne’s just a serving girl,” Master Mott said, and for the first time, Jeyne found herself wondering if there was truth in Willow’s words, when the girl swore that Jeyne was Old Sybilla’s favorite. “Why should they care about her?”

            The visitor turned to look at Jeyne, and when he smiled, the smile did not reach his eyes.

            “Oh,” he said, “I imagine Jeyne knows. I imagine she knows quite well.”

            Jeyne felt her blood run cold. _He knows, he knows who I used to be._

If she’d had Needle, she would have cut his throat then and there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Arya, always wearing different faces...
> 
> Full disclosure, a part of me wants to just...like...write a whole separate work that's just Arya chilling out as a serving girl at Master Mott's shop. I just love all the dynamics. Brad Pitt has been called a character actor cursed with a leading man's face, and Arya often had a similar dynamic in the books, of a highborn lady who would've been happier among the smallfolk. If I dared, I'd just write whole chapters of Arya-as-Jeyne cussing out random shopkeepers in the streets of King's Landing, but, alas, the story calls us ever onwards.
> 
> Before anyone asks, there's nothing special or subtextual going on with the whole scene in the washroom. Privacy as we understand it wasn't really invented until the twentieth century; even the rich and highborn always had a servant or three lurking in the background. It's kind of like when modern Americans step into old, Victorian-era houses; even the homes of the wealthy often feel small and cramped to us. Master Mott's shop, in my mind, is like that. Tobho Mott is in the upper crust of blacksmiths, and his establishment reflects that, by the standards of the time; to us, it's probably not much bigger than your average two-story suburban middle class home. 
> 
> But I digress...
> 
> Moving on! In Wednesday's episode, Jon and Roslin try to make sense of recent revelations. Stay tuned!


	60. Roslin

THE STRANGEST DAY OF HER LIFE BEGAN WITH VOMIT. This didn’t shock Roslin, truth be told; for the past two weeks, most of her days had dawned in a fog of queasiness, her stomach roiling and churning, the mere _thought_ of food enough to make her entire world tilt sideways and start spinning. At least, the thought of food would make her want to retch, up until the sun rose high in the sky and the sept’s bells rang for the midday service. Then, she would become ravenously hungry, gorging on bread and plain, flavorless porridge and the mildest of cheeses and, strangest of all, _lemoncakes._ Roslin _hated_ lemoncakes, had always hated them, couldn’t even stand the smell, but now she wanted them _all the time_ and it was driving her _insane._

            She’d only outright retched _once,_ though... _well, twice now, I suppose,_ she thought as she emptied her stomach into the bucket Olira had so kindly, _so sneakily,_ placed beside the bed for just that purpose. She retched until the world stopped spinning, was about to wipe her mouth, but then she realized that her husband was there as Jon pulled back her hair and began wiping her face with a damp cloth. The world had gone hazy and Jon’s face blurred as Roslin sniffed and sniffled and finally managed to blubber, “ _You’re so sweet, I’m so lucky to have you,”_ whereupon she burst into tears.

            The emotions were the worst. She cried all the time of late, it felt like, often at the drop of a hat for the most inane, bizarre reasons. Just the day before, Lady Catelyn had complimented her on her stitchwork and Roslin had sobbed for at least half-an-hour. Roslin would’ve hated the strange, unpredictable flood of emotions the most of any of the weird, uncomfortable things happening to her if not for their strange, most welcome side effect, mostly at night, at least once in the middle of the day behind Riverrun’s stables, but that was nobody’s business but hers, her husband’s, and, unfortunately, one slightly traumatized stableboy who _really_ should’ve been paying more attention when he rounded that corner.

            In the end, though, the retching was done, and she managed to calm down just enough to chase Jon out of the room ( _he really needs to stop fretting about me so, these are women’s problems, surely he must know that, and besides, doesn’t he know he’s his brother’s indispensable right hand?!)_ , whereupon she set to sobbing once again, which wasn’t her fault, _Jon was just so sweet, so sweet and kind,_ she babbled as much to Marielyn when the handmaid came to help Roslin get ready for her day, ranting and raving as Marielyn brushed Roslin’s hair and helped her dress and didn’t roll her eyes even once, the kind, sweet girl, which only made Roslin want to cry _again_.

            She would have, too, but that was the moment when Olira opened the door and ushered in a fierce-looking old septa, two mouselike novices scurrying into the room behind them. An hour later, the fearsome septa was holding Roslin, patting her back as she muttered kindnesses in a voice like nails on a chalkboard. It was the greatest, happiest moment of Roslin’s short life. She was so happy, _she felt like she’d swallowed the sun,_ she felt warm and joyful and fit to _bursting_ she just _had_ to tell Jon, _she had to tell him right away,_ and she would have done just that if Olira hadn’t stopped her at the door and said, calm and cool, “Beg pardon, my lady, but I must remind you that you removed your smallclothes for the examination…”

            “And you’re only wearing your shift, my lady,” Marielyn pointed out, smiling from ear-to-ear and bouncing up-and-down on her feet, hands clasped to her chest.

            “Who cares?” Roslin had snapped, trying to force Olira away from the door.

            “No doubt Ser Jon will be appreciative,” Olira admitted, rolling her eyes, “but the rest of the castle will be rather scandalized, I should think.”

            In the end, Roslin agreed that her handmaids had a point, so she thanked the septa and the novices, received the septa’s blessing, sent the septa off with a generous donation for the motherhouse, and allowed her handmaids to make her presentable again.

            Roslin didn’t walk after that, so much as she _floated._ She _glided_ down from her and Jon’s rooms, hovering what felt like a foot off the ground on a cloud of the warmest, gentlest air. She beamed and smiled and fought down the urge to burst into tears and announce her happy news every single time she encountered so much as a scullery maid. Even finding that the lords and captains had finished breaking their fast and left the great hall failed to bring her down. She just... _kept floating,_ floated out into the yard, _somehow_ resisted the urge to dance her way towards the sound of steel clanging and crashing on more steel. She really did burst into happy tears when she saw Daryn Hornwood, embracing him as if he were her brother and kissing him on both cheeks. He’d thrown his head back and led the gathered men in booming laughter, and she joined them, laughing harder than any of them and kissing his cheeks again when he told her that her husband was in the godswood with Lord Robb and Lady Catelyn. When she found the three of them huddled in conversation, _and why do they look like they’ve been crying, I hope they haven’t had bad news,_ but she couldn’t wait, she actually _did_ dance a jig then, twirling her skirts through the air before running up to her husband, hurling herself into his arms, and kissing him like no one was watching.

            “Roslin!” he said when she finally released him. “What-”

            “ _I’m pregnant!”_

Roslin had often dreamed of this moment, the moment when she would tell a husband that she was with child. At the Twins, news of pregnancy was uttered with little joy, received with even less. The maester would walk up to her father, lean over and whisper in his ear, and Lord Walder Frey would laugh and say something like, _Well, good, took her long enough, tell her it better be a girl this time, I’ve got too many boys of late._ Sometimes, there would be a visitor, someone who didn’t know the way things were at the Twins, and the visitor would propose a toast and her father would growl, _Now, why would I waste good wine on a mare doing what it’s made to do? Let’s see if the whelp survives its first nameday, **then** you can raise a toast._

Roslin had wished that it would different for her. She had never presumed to wish that her husband would be comely or kind or gentle, but what she couldn’t stop herself from doing was wishing that, when she told whoever he would be that she was with child, he would be _happy._

            And, for a moment, her life was everything she could’ve hoped it would be. Her husband _was_ kind, _was_ gentle, was even a blooded warrior who’d brought honor upon his house on the field of battle, and when his face broke into the silliest grin she had ever seen, she burst into tears all over again and buried herself in his chest, squealed like a little girl as he picked her up and swung her around and around and around.

            But then he set her down, and she turned to ask Lady Catelyn for her blessing and saw Lady Catelyn’s face.

            In that instant, Roslin knew that something had gone horribly, _terribly_ wrong, and her heart turned to ice and fell into her shoes, and when Lady Catelyn pushed a book into Roslin’s hands and embraced her as a mother would a sickly child, Roslin found herself choking back tears, from confusion as much as fear, _and there was plenty of fear, sudden, unwanted, and tasting of bile at the back of her throat._

She opened her eyes.

            They were sitting in the godswood, the weirwood tree looming over them. They sat on a gnarled root, side-by-side, pressed up against each other. Jon was holding one of her hands, or mayhaps she was holding one of his, _or mayhaps we’re holding each other,_ all she knew was that their fingers were entwined, and she was squeezing the life out of his hand. She must have been hurting him, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. She was happy for that. The world was spinning, up was down and down was up and she had never been so terrified in all her life. Nothing compared to this, not the thought of birthing a child, _and she was afraid of that, she’d watched childbirth kill her mother, her mother and poor Annara Farring, poor Annara who’d cursed Roslin’s father with her dying breath._

_Father thought it was funny when I told him. He laughed and laughed and laughed…_

**_I was going to let you in on a few secrets, but, alas, I’ve changed my mind…_ **

**** _Was **this** the secret? By the Seven, did he **know?**_

            _Did he **know…**_

Lady Catelyn’s book was open in her lap, resting in the folds of her skirts. The image of Baelor Breakspear looked up at her, and she wanted to curse herself for not seeing it before. _They **could** be kin, not close kin, not brothers, not father and son or uncle and nephew, but cousins? Yes, cousins… _

            With her free hand, she turned the page, found Aegor Rivers glaring up at her with the fire of a thousand suns blazing in his eyes. _Bittersteel...this one **could** be Jon’s brother. His mother was a Bracken, and gods know the Brackens have married enough Blackwoods over the years for the blood of the First Men to seep into their veins. _It was true, then, it was all true, Roslin knew in her heart of hearts that it was all so _brutally, terrifyingly true…_

_Which means…_

“So,” she finally said, she didn’t know how long they’d been sitting there, but it felt like a long time, “I’m the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

            Jon let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “That’s...we don’t know that…”

            She rounded on him, squeezed his hand even harder, slammed the book shut to emphasize her words. “We know. Rhaegar Targaryen married Lyanna Stark, and the result is you. Rhaegar’s dead, his son and his daughter are dead, which means _you_ are the rightful King.”

            He gave her hand a final squeeze, let go, shot to his feet. He paced up to the weirwood tree, looked up at its... _its face,_ Roslin couldn’t look at that face without shivering, _sometimes she had nightmares about the face on Winterfell’s tree._ It just seemed so... _so…_

_She didn’t even know, but she was afraid of it, as if on the day she finally saw it, her life would end…_

“I…” Jon’s voice was thick, shot through with emotions she could only guess at. “I used to dream of being Lord of Winterfell. Gods help me, I did, I’m loyal, I’ve always been loyal, but I’m only human. I wanted to...I’ve always wanted to be... _I don’t even know,_ I always recoiled at the thought, _I knew what it would mean, if it happened,_ but I couldn’t…”

            She took the book from her lap, set it softly on the grass, rose to her feet in a hiss of cloth and skirts. She went to her husband’s side, took his hand in hers once more, squeezed it for all that she was worth.

            “You mustn’t beat yourself up over it, Jon. It’s like you said, _you were only human.”_

He sighed, a great big, painful-looking thing. “That was...that was in the deepest depths of my soul, where even I feared to tread. But I had other dreams, dreams of a cadet house and a holdfast, or Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, mayhaps even...Bran, gods help him, he so wanted to be a knight of the Kingsguard, and sometimes I’d lie awake at night and dream of the two of us serving together, dressed all in white, but... _but…”_ He closed his eyes as his voice cracked, and a lone tear trickled down his cheek. “It’s one thing for a bastard to have a secret dream of one day ruling the castle he grew up in, but this... _this is another thing entirely…”_

He turned to face her, opened his red-rimmed, washed out eyes, those eyes of deepest grey that she enjoyed gazing into so much, pressed a hand to her stomach. “And this...the idea that... _gods, what am I saying..._ I could still be a bastard. Lord Karstark wants to send Ned back north, and Robb is going to give him a private message for Lord Reed, Lord Reed was at the Tower of Joy, if anyone would know it would be him, and... _gods, we can’t even prove it…”_

She reached up, caressed his face. “Anyone who cares to look at your face, _truly look at it,_ would know.”

            He placed his free hand atop her own, pressed it against his cheek. “That doesn’t make me trueborn, Roslin. Prince Rhaegar already had a wife…”

            “And the Faith carved out the Doctrine of Exceptionalism all the way back in the reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator. If it covered the Targaryens and their incest, I’m sure it covered a man having more than one wife.”

            He chuckled. “That would be a sight to behold. I as the Old King, and you as my very own Good Queen Alysanne.”

            She felt something prick at her heart, some hard as iron and cold as ice. “They...I won’t get the chance. If you became king, they’d make you set me aside. No one will want a Frey as Queen.”

            Something happened to him then, something she’d never expected to see. His jaw set and hardened, and when his eyes flashed, she swore she could see something purple rippling deep in their depths.

            “They’re welcome to try. I said the words, made the vow. You’re my wife, this child,” the hand upon her stomach squeezed, and she swore she could feel the nascent life inside flash and glow within her, “is our child, and if they don’t like it, they can bugger off.” Just like that, the steel was gone, his face softened, and she started to wonder if she’d only imagined that glint of purple. “Besides, it’s all academic. Bastard of Winterfell or Bastard of Dragonstone, I’m probably still a bastard, and not in line for _anything,_ and even if I was, how could we prove it? _Would we even want to?”_

Roslin wanted to say so many things to her husband in that moment. She wanted to tell him that he shouldn’t make promises he couldn’t keep, that they didn’t know what the future would bring. She wanted to tell him of the strange dreams she’d been having, dreams she couldn’t remember, dreams that filled her with a sense of doom and destiny. She even wanted to tell him of the nagging prick at the back of her mind, of a half-remembered man lurking outside her father’s solar, a man she felt she should remember, even if she couldn’t.

            But something shifted inside her, and it all flew away. She burst into tears and pulled him down for a kiss, soft and deep.

            After all, her husband had said exactly what she wanted to hear, deep down inside, and she was only human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy is the head that wears a crown...
> 
> And if that's true, how much heavier must head that's threatened by one be? I guess we'll all find out together...
> 
> A lot going on here, but there are a few things I'd like to clarify. For one, sometimes, as a writer, one has to...shall we say...write characters who have opinions and beliefs that one doesn't share. For example, I don't believe that pregnancy is women's troubles. Only women can have babies, but it still takes a dude to put the baby there, and that makes them shared troubles. I have no patience for dudes who think that their job ends at conception and check out until the moment of delivery, but, alas, that's not the society our characters are living in. 
> 
> I also want to head off anyone who takes certain comments and thoughts of Roslin's as meaning that I'm anti-choice. I'm super Catholic, and thus personally anti-abortion, my wife and I both, she more so than me, honestly, but something we share is being vehemently pro-choice. But, again, that's not the society or culture this story is taking place in, so there you go.
> 
> Though, none of that should come as a shock. If you don't know by now that I'm a bleeding heart lefty, I don't know what to do with you. Just wanted to head a few things off at the pass there, you know?
> 
> And if you think I'm just being coy and distracting from...things...I haven't the faintest idea what you mean.
> 
> Moving on! In Friday's episode, the Queen of Thorns hears a word. Stay tuned!


	61. The Unplucked Rose

MARGAERY TYRELL WAS A MAID. She didn’t want to be a maid, knew that it was vitally important that she stop being a maid, had done everything in power and limited knowledge of such matters to bring about the act that would end her being a maid, and yet, there she was, regarding herself in a mirror of polished silver, still a maid.

            It was enough to make her want to scream, at herself more than anyone or anything else. _Foolish girl,_ she thought, glaring at her reflection in the mirror. _Silly, stupid, foolish girl. What did you **think** was going to happen? _But it wasn’t a matter of what she’d _thought,_ was it? It was a matter of what she’d been told, and what she’d _hoped. It’s that last that makes me a fool. Renly’s nature is the worst kept secret in the Seven Kingdoms._

_The moment I saw him caress my brother’s cheek during the wedding feast, I should’ve accepted it all as a farce and stopped worrying about it._

_And yet…_

“Margaery? Are you alright?”

            Margaery looked herself in the eye, did not turn around until she had schooled her features into a kind, sweet, smiling mask that she found acceptable, turned on her stool to face her friends. “Of course, Elinor. Why wouldn’t I be?”

            They were arrayed in a half-circle behind her, her cousins, Elinor in the middle, Megga and Alla flanking her. All three had their hands clasped carefully at their waists, and all three wore looks of worry and concern. In an instant, Margaery felt her spirits lift, her shoulders become unburdened as if a weight had rolled off of them. _I am not alone,_ she thought, as she felt her smile lighten and widen and slowly seep into her eyes. 

            _If they believe in me, it can’t be quite so hopeless yet._

“You just looked…” Elinor paused, looked first to Megga, then to Alla, turned back to Margaery. “You just looked...so far away, and so sad...you’ve never looked sad before, Margaery.”

            Margaery bit down on a heavy sigh. _I’m not sad, just...disappointed, I suppose._ But she couldn’t say that, not out loud, not even here, surrounded by her favorite cousins and her closest, most trusted maids. Megga’s heart was pure and true, may the Maiden bless her and keep her, but Margaery was well aware that her cousin had the biggest mouth in the Reach. _Besides, saying it will make it so…_

_And I’m not done yet, Seven help me…_

“I just miss home,” she said, not least because it was true. Autumn approached, and Highgarden was never quite so lovely as when autumn was in the air. The air would be cool and fresh, the grass so green it blinded the eye as it rippled in the breeze, and trees would be heavy with fruit, fruit so ripe she could reach out and pluck it as she galloped over the hills on her daily rides, the wind in her hair and sweet juice dripping cool and sticky down her chin. _Oh, to be ahorse again._

_If I could only ride, as I did before Father called the banners and the host marched, I would feel better. I know I would. The world never seems dark and dreary from the back of a horse._

            “I just miss home,” she repeated, turning back to her mirror, glad to see that the mask had settled in, become almost true. “Home, and His Grace the King. I so wish he had taken me hunting with him today.” Though mayhaps it was for the best, truth be told. Renly was hunting with his lords, his and Father’s, and Loras was there with him, and Margaery hated how she felt when she watched them look at each other. It wasn’t right to be jealous of one’s own brother, especially a brother Margaery loved more than she loved herself, even now, and besides, it was unfair to begrudge her brother something he had always had, since long before Father concocted the idea of hurling Margaery into Renly’s bed. _I was supposed to be for King Robert,_ she reminded herself. She couldn’t quite manage to stop a flush from creeping into her cheeks. _That old lecher wouldn’t have left me unbedded, I’d bet a hundred dragons on it._

            Her cousins broke into a chorus of giggles, and she thanked her cheeks for the flush. “Oh, I’m sure the King is thinking of you, too,” Alla said, giggling into her hands. “He’ll return to you before you know it, I’m sure, and soon you’ll have beautiful children.”

            “The most beautiful children,” Megga agreed. “We’re all so jealous of you.”

            _You shouldn’t be,_ Margaery thought. _Though mayhaps all they see is the crown._

Her eyes flashed to the circlet of golden roses resting on a bed of velvet in a box of lacquered wood, the box itself inlaid with intricate designs in gold and precious stones. _Though it is a lovely crown, I’ll grant them that._

_And we all know it was the crown you truly wanted, Margaery. Don’t lie to yourself as you lie to most everyone else._

“My word, such a storm of giggles,” a sharp, ancient voice snapped. “Is there a fool hiding under your skirts, Elinor, or are you all just being stupid little girls again?”

            Everyone in the tent gasped, the maids falling to their knees and Margaery’s cousins dropping into deep curtsies. Everyone, that is, except Margaery, who leapt to her feet, so happy she almost burst into tears. “Grandmama!”

            The Lady Olenna Tyrell was standing before her, almost comically dwarfed by the looming doorway behind her. A soft, age-spotted hand rested atop her cane, gaunt thin fingers gripping the knob, and her toothless mouth was curved downwards in an irritated frown, though Margaery couldn’t help  but notice the smile that pricked at the corners. “Now Margaery, my sweet, beautiful Margaery, what have I told you about calling me _Grandmama?_ ”

            Margaery went to her grandmother, pulled her into a soft hug, delighted at how her grandmother’s free hand floated up to tighten on her shoulder. “That you’re not nearly old enough to be addressed so.”

            Grandmother rolled her eyes as she tilted her head one way, then the other, the better to receive the kisses Margaery planted on her cheeks. “Oh, I’m more than old enough to be called all sorts of hideous things. Flattery will get you nowhere, you know that, girl.”

            “It’s not flattery if it’s the truth, Grandmother,” Margaery chided, taking her grandmother by the hand and slowly, carefully leading over to a stool that one of the maids had already placed beside Margaery’s own. Margaery was, of course, well aware that her grandmother was nowhere near as frail as she pretended, but the first lesson the Queen of Thorns had ever taught her was that appearances must always be maintained.

            It was a lesson Margaery had taken to heart of late.

            Grandmother settled herself onto the stool to a chorus of grunts, grumbles, and popping joints. “You silly girl...just what am I to do with you?”

            Margaery settled herself on her own stool, brushed out a few wrinkles from her skirts. “Love me forever and for always, Grandmother?”

            Olenna Tyrell rolled her eyes. “Done and done, long ago, my girl.” She reached out, cupped Margaery’s cheeks in one hand. “You really are the most beautiful women the Seven Kingdoms have ever seen, you know that, right?”

            Margaery allowed herself a blush. “So you always tell me, Grandmother.”

            The old woman gave Margaery’s cheek a gentle squeeze and a few soft pats before releasing her, the faint whisps of joy vanishing from her features as her face twisted into an expression that instantly filled Margaery with foreboding. “And so I always will, sweetling. Now, send your gaggle of little fools away, I need to talk to you.” She turned to face the assembled cousins and ladies and maids. “ _Alone,_ of course.”

            To their credit, everyone waited for Margaery to dismiss them, though they all looked as if they’d wanted to flee the moment the Queen of Thorns entered the room. It wasn’t until they were all gone, not until after the door had closed with an ominous _thunk,_ that Grandmother finally seemed to relax.

            She grew even more serious, Margaery couldn’t help but notice, but she did enter a state that vaguely resembled _relaxation._

            “I’m sure you’re surprised to see me.”

            “I am,” Margaery admitted. “You made very clear that you intended to remain at Highgarden, _the better to avoid being subjected to this ghastly foolishness,_ I believe was how you put it.”

            Olenna Tyrell sighed, clucking her tongue against her toothless gums. “That I did, but then I received a very...shall we say _intriguing_ letter, and decided to come and pay you a visit.”

            “I hope you didn’t strain yourself unduly, Grandmother.”

            Her grandmother waved the concern aside with a flippant wave of her hand. “ _Please._ If your oaf of a father moved this traveling circus any slower, he’d be going the other way. It’s been almost two weeks since you were married, over a week since the army marched, and yet I’d bet a half-a-hundred dragons that you could still see Highgarden from the top of this dungheap.”

            Margaery frowned. “Grandmother, this is the seat of Lord Middlebury, and it is _far_ from a dungheap.”

            “Fine, call it a pile of rust-spotted rocks, if it please you. My point still stands.”

            As much as Margaery felt that her grandmother was, _as usual,_ being a bit dramatic, the old woman did, _as usual,_ have a point. Renly had marched with upwards of eighty-thousand swords and spears and bows, all the chivalry of the Reach and the Storm Lands glittering along the roseroad, more than enough to crush any army that could be gathered to stand against them, and yet they made barely two or three leagues a day, stopping every night to feast and roust, taking time at every castle and holdfast to hunt and ride and joust and parade before the smallfolk. The Kingslayer had been smashed by the northmen at Riverrun, Lord Tywin was caught between more northmen and the Vale, Dorne seethed in silence, and Lord Stannis would be lucky to gather even a fraction of what Father had put into Renly’s hands, and yet, here they were, _crawling._

_And in the midst of it all I sit, feted and honored and envied, all the while still a maid…_

“For the sake of conversation,” Margaery finally said, pushing her traitorous thoughts aside, “let us say that I concede your point.” The seat of House Middlebury was a fine one, Margaery felt, but it was also old and somewhat shabby and in desperate need of repair. The current Lord Middlebury’s grandfather had had a veritable army of daughters, and the house’s lands and incomes had yet to quite recover from the dowries. “What was in this letter?”

            Olenna Tyrell smiled, but it was the kind of smile that Margaery didn’t particularly like to see on the face of the grandmother who doted on her so. “Let us say that it confirmed a long held suspicion, and answered many long lingering questions. I have disapproved of this marriage of yours from the start, you’ll remember.”

            Margaery was glad that she was so used to how her grandmother who leap from topic-to-topic, seemingly at random, _though never actually so._ “I remember that you called it a _mummer’s farce,_ and stormed from the hall when Father said he was going through with it anyways.”

            “Yes, well, your father was being even more of a thick, dull-witted oaf than usual, and it was either leave or beat him about the head with my cane until he finally saw sense. _I mean to make our lovely Rose a Queen, Mother,_ ” she said, casting her voice into cruel, if not entirely inaccurate, mockery of Lord Mace Tyrell. “I pointed out that I myself had had the chance to be a princess, and broke the damned stupid thing for reasons not unlike those that should’ve made your oaf of a father rethink his silly ambitions.”

            Margaery rolled her eyes. It was hard not to; she’d heard the story often enough before. “It was Prince Daeron who broke the marriage pact, Grandmother.”

            “ _Pah._ And who do you think told him to do it, when my overproud father proved stubborn? Better Lady of Highgarden with a husband who could find his way between my legs from time-to-time, than to sit and waste away a maiden Princess. Which reminds me,” Margaery found herself leaning back as her grandmother leaned forward, a fire in her eyes, “I don’t want you to fret about still being a maid anymore.”

            “I’m not a maid,” Margaery said, more from force of habit than anything else. “My husband-”

            “Would tear his eyes from your brother’s pretty little arse long enough to remember where your bed is in order to change that, and we both know that’s never going to happen.”

            Margaery shrugged, feeling strangely uncomfortable. She wasn’t entirely sure she liked where this conversation was going, not least because she hadn’t the faintest idea what it could possibly be about. “Stranger things have been known to happen…”

            “Yes,” Olenna Tyrell admitted, “and, as that towering drink of water Ser Duncan the Tall was fond of saying, _if pigs had scales and could fly and breathe fire, they’d be as good as dragons._ Alas, since I don’t see any pigs lumbering through the sky, it’s time you and I started thinking about finding you a more suitable husband. Gods, Lady Stark sold the Bastard of Winterfell to a damned sodding _Frey,_ and yet rumor has it the two of them rut damned near every night.”

            For a moment, Margaery found herself jealous of a Frey, _and a Frey sold off to a bastard, too._ She shoved the thought aside, with difficulty, true, but she managed in the end. “Grandmother,” she chided, focusing on her words and her grandmother’s blazing eyes, “I already have a husband.”

            Olenna Tyrell scoffed, a sound she punctuated with a strike of her cane to the floor. “An unconsummated marriage can be set aside quick as spit, and I’ve never have much faith in that poncy little boy’s chances in this war. As I said, it’s time to start thinking about someone better.”

            Margaery frowned. “Like who, Joffrey?”

            Her grandmother reared back as if Margaery had slapped her. “That slimy little cur? Over my dead body. No, I’m talking about someone more suitable, more... _comely,_ shall we say. Dashing even, if half of what I’ve heard is true.”

            Margaery felt her brows knit in thought and confusion. “Who...who would that be, Grandmother?”

            If Margaery had been wary of her grandmother’s smile before, she discovered new ways to dislike it as it grew ever more wicked and sly. “Well, my dear...how does a _Stark_ sound to you?”

            It took a moment to admit to herself, a long, fraught, leaden moment, but in the end, Margaery couldn’t help but returned her grandmother’s smile.

            Because, well...as much as she liked Renly, and how could anyone dislike Renly, she had to admit, to herself if to no one else, that she liked the sound of a Stark very much indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, well...
> 
> Looks like the Queen of Thorns got a letter. From whom? I should try to be coy...but come on, it was fucking Varys, it's always fucking Varys. It'll be interesting to see where this all goes...
> 
> For the record, I do not in the least endorse any of the outdated gender dynamics or sexual politics in this chapter. This setting really is, just, one of the most distasteful to write in sometimes, I swear, but it is what it is and we all have to make do sometimes.
> 
> Moving on! In Monday's episode, Ned has a final talk with Varys. Stay tuned!


	62. Eddard

HE SHOULD HAVE BEEN ANGRY. He was in a foul mood, after all, had every reason to be, he felt. The whole of the Red Keep was alive with talk of how his daughter had fallen to her knees, had thrown herself on the floor and begged that golden-haired whelp who dared sit the Iron Throne to have mercy on him. Sansa had begged, Sansa had pleaded, had sobbed like a child before the whole of the court, and the Queen had made sure that Ned heard every sordid detail, over and over and over again. Then, to add insult to injury, Ned had had to copy out a prewritten confession, sign it and seal it, all while the Queen looked on, smiling like the cat that had just got the canary, and just when he found himself feeling almost thankful that the horrid woman had not brought her wretched son along to his cell for the show, she had _discovered_ some minor error, carefully torn his work into tiny pieces, and made him copy it all out again. He had been left alone after that, left alone to his ghosts and his walks, but that did not spare him from the servants tittering behind their hands, doing nothing to hide how much joy and pleasure they took from seeing such a high born lord brought to the point that his pretty little daughter had to beg for his life on hands and knees.

            _And on the morrow,_ he thought to himself, as the guards escorted him back from his walk ‘round the godswood, _on the morrow, I will stand before gods and men on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor. Baelor’s hideous statue will glare down upon me as the smallfolk shout and jeer and curse and pelt me with rotten food no doubt provided courtesy of the Crown for just this occasion. I will stand before them all, and at a precise moment, the High Septon will call for silence and I will raise my voice and confess to every possible treason except for the ones I actually committed._ He deserved it, he deserved every bit of it, his ghosts made sure to tell him so every night, but that didn’t make it any easier to swallow, so, yes, he was in a foul mood, and, yes, he _should_ have been angry.

            But, when the guards shoved him into his so-called _room_ and slammed the door behind him, when he blinked against the light shining in from the open windows and saw who was waiting for him, he couldn’t quite manage it. Somehow, the sight of the man awaiting him combined with the knowledge that this man was just about the only friend that remained to him in the world only made him sigh with sadness and resignation.

            “Lord Varys,” he said, bowing his head from the door.

            Varys smiled, bowed his own head in return. “Lord Stark. You’re looking well.”

            Ned grimaced as he limped over to the table Varys had prepared for them beneath a high window, grunted as he tossed his walking stick onto the bed and slumped into the empty chair across from the one Varys had settled upon. “Well,” he said, pouring himself a cup of wine, “at least I look it.”

            Varys tittered, and if he noticed that the sound made Ned wince, as usual, Varys gave no sign. Ned suspected that the man knew, knew and didn’t care, and Ned had long since decided to not think about it. “That was almost a joke, my lord. You’re making progress.”

            Ned answered that with a grunt before taking a deep gulp of wine, a deep gulp he instantly regretted. “ _Gods,_ how could Robert drink this swill? A drunken beggar sleeping in the streets would turn his nose up at it.”

            Varys took a sniff of his own cup and made a face. “I’ve often had the same thought myself, my lord. Occasionally, when I’m in the grips of a melancholy mood, I am tempted to don a disguise, seek out the drunkest, most abject beggar in Flea Bottom, and find out for myself.”

            Ned felt an eyebrow prick up in interest, and almost mustered the will to hate it. A good year he had known the Spider now, a year that had included months of confinement and more conversations than Ned cared to think about, and yet he couldn’t quite figure out how to wrest control of a conversation from the eunuch. _Somehow, I’m always following someone. I’m the Lord Winterfell, Warden of the North, Head of House Stark, descendent of the Kings of Winter, until tomorrow, at least, and yet I have never been master of my own fate._

_Are any of us?_

“Why haven’t you?” Ned asked, unable to keep the resignation from his tone.

            Varys shrugged as he took a dainty sip of wine. “I have always prided myself on knowing almost everything, my lord, and that includes accepting that one cannot _know all,_ nor should one.” He took another sip of his wine, made a face, and set aside his cup, the better to focus on the bowl of thick, creamy soup before him. “Septon Barth once made a similar observation. You know Septon Barth, my lord?”

            Ned forced himself to polish off his cup and pour another before digging into his own bowl of soup. “He was Hand to Jaehaerys the Conciliator, was he not?”

            “Just so, my lord. Do you also know the tale of the Princess Aerea?”

            Ned concentrated on his soup for a moment, the better to wrack his brain. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but that could just have been due to how all Targaryen names sounded... _strange and foriegn,_ but strange and foreign in vaguely similar ways. The truth was, Lord Rickard Stark had strongly discouraged his two younger sons from reading and learning anything that smacked even vaguely of _softness,_ and that had included anything concerning princesses, even legendary ones, much less princess of flesh and blood. Father had considered Ned too quiet and retiring, and Benjen too soft. _I already have a daughter,_ he had said, _I don’t need two more._

            _He only truly approved of Brandon._ There had been times when Ned had wondered if his older brother was the only person their father truly loved.

            Sometimes, late at night, when even his ghosts had abandoned him, he wondered it still.

            Finally, he gave the effort at recollection up, setting aside his spoon and taking a deep draught of his dead friend’s favorite wine. “I must confess that I do not,” he said. _Lyanna would know. Father always made sure Maester Walys gave her books full of beautiful princesses and dutiful ladies, not that it did any good._ “Was she one of the Old King’s?”

            “One of his nieces,” Varys said, “daughter of his sister Rhaena and his brother Aegon.”

            Ned felt recognition flash in his mind. “Aegon, the one Maegor the Cruel killed beneath the God’s Eye.” He knew that tale. It was a story of cruelty, subterfuge, and war, just the thing for Father to push on Ned and his younger brother. _Benjen hated those stories, and mayhaps I did, too._ Ned couldn’t be sure, not anymore. His lord father commanded him to learn tales of knights and kings and lords and wars, and so he did, and that had been the end of it. _And when he packed me off to the Vale, I shed not a single tear._

_I wonder if Father was proud._

“Quite so,” Varys said, smiling as he broke off a chunk of bread and dipped it into the soup. “Through a series of events too long and convoluted to recount here, the Princess Aerea came to live under her mother the Princess Rhaena’s thumb and hated every moment of it. She had spent much of her life at court, you see, with her uncle Jaehaerys and her aunt the Good Queen Alysanne, and longed to return to that glittering sea of handsome lordlings and gallant knights and singers with silver tongues. The Red Keep in those days was bright and cheerful, while Dragonstone, where her mother’s word held sway, was cold and damp and lonely. One day, Aerea couldn’t take it anymore, and stole away on none other than Balerion the Black Dread. No doubt she wished to return to King’s Landing, but alas, she could not control the dragon, and it went...well, we may guess, but only the gods know for sure. When she returned a year later, Balerion looked like he had been in a hideous battle, and as for the princess...well...she died that night, no matter how hard Septon Barth and Grand Maester Benifer tried to save her. The word was that the princess had died of a fever, and that was, in a way, true...but only partly so…”

            Varys paused, downed the rest of his wine in one gulp, poured himself another cup, and for a moment, Ned thought he saw genuine distress lurking deep in the eunuch’s eyes.

            “What he saw that night inspired Barth to write his infamous _Unnatural History,_ the very work that Baelor the Blessed ordered suppressed and burned. Even the reach of the Iron Throne has limits, though, and in the Free Cities of Essos, where I was born and, after a fashion, raised, one can still find copies. _The Father made men curious,_ he wrote, _some say to test our faith. It is my own abiding sin that whenever I come upon a door I must needs see what lies upon the farther side, but certain doors are best left unopened._ ” Varys drank from his cup, looked up from its depths. “I see from the look on your face that you see my meaning, my lord.”

            Ned did; gods help him, he did. “If you’re worried about tomorrow,” he said, doing nothing to keep the anger and disgust from his voice, “worried that I shall blurt out truths best left unsaid, have no fear. I have promised to confess my treasons and confess my treasons I shall.” _And I won’t even be lying, not truly. I have committed many treasons, aye, I have committed the worst kind of treasons, treasons against my friend and my family._

_What are a few more false treasons, set against so black a record?_

Varys sipped his wine, set it aside. “I am glad to hear it, my lord. So much depends upon you tomorrow, and sweet, lovely Sansa begged so piteously for your life.”

            Not for the first time, and Ned doubted it would be the last, he considered killing Varys then and there. He looked at the spoon in his hand and imagined driving it into the Spider’s eye. He wondered if the eunuch would be surprised, or if he would just titter and say something droll. 

            Somehow, Ned suspected it would be the latter. That, as much as anything else, stayed his hand.

            “I am glad to hear it, my lord. You will never know how glad.” The Spider picked up his own spoon, along with the remains of his bread, and set upon his soup. “I do bring some glad tidings, my lord. Your... _son,_ is to be a father.”

            Ned’s heart leapt into his throat, happy and warm as tears of joy sprang to his eyes. Jon was not the son of his body, but he was Ned’s son in all the ways that mattered; fatherhood was something that Ned had always suspected would be denied the boy, and it made him want to dance a jig to learn otherwise. 

            But the eunuch’s hideous little tale had done its work, and Ned’s heart soon plummeted right through his boots and into the floor. “No doubt you mean to do something about that.”

            He looked up and saw something he had never suspected could even exist. Varys looked...offended somehow, offended, hurt, _almost angry._

            “I mean to say prayers for the Lady Roslin’s health,” the eunuch said, dropping his spoon into his soup, his voice hard and cold. “I mean to wish her long life, and many happy, healthy children with young... _Jon._ There will not be many happy endings to find, once all of this is said and done; the least I can hope for is that your... _son,_ finds joy in the pretty young girl who grew up in a hideous home, the pretty young girl who liked him when he was naught more than a Snow.” Varys looked down at his soup, glared, shoved it aside. “I know you don’t believe me; you have every reason not to, but that’s the truth. I may be a monster, life has made me so, but I was once a man, just as you are. I was once a callow young boy who dreamed of nothing but the stage and pretty girls, just as any callow young boy does.”

            For the first time in possibly his entire life, Ned felt a measure of control. He had found a chink in the eunuch’s armor, and he could not help but push in the knife, as much as it made bile burn hot and bitter at the back of his throat. _My life hangs by a thread, dependent on the whims of a coddled little boy born of incest and madness._

_Not a good place for a Stark to be._

“You dreamed of pretty girls? The whispers say otherwise.” Ned said the words, hated them, instantly knew them for the childish cruelties they were, but could not call them back, no more than he had been able to stop his mouth from uttering them.

            And, as sure as the sun rises in the east, the eunuch made him pay for them.

            “ _The whispers are lies,”_ Varys snarled, his voice cold and brittle as fresh fallen snow. “I have sold my arse, yes, is that what you want to hear? I had just been maimed by a madman who spoke to a fire, a madman to whom I was sold by the one person in the world I thought I could trust, and I was starving and filled with the white-hot desire for vengeance. I wanted to _live_ , and I did what I had to do to _survive_. You lords may prattle on about your _dignity_ and your _honor,_ but for us lurking in the shadows, for us wallowing in the darkness you gallop past, our choices are much more limited, _much more cruel._ And, _my lord,_ do not feel so mighty, for on the morrow you will debase yourself before the mob, while my little birds whisper that your own lady _wife_ will have a few things to say, once she sees you again.”

            Ned felt as if he had been slapped across the face with a fist cloaked in steel, and it hurt all the more for being so richly deserved. _That’s what I get for being cruel, and it’s less than I deserve. **Promise me, Ned…**_

**** **_Promise me…_ **

“Catelyn knows…”

            Varys nodded. “She does, and just as I doubt Jon will ever truly forgive her for a lifetime of cold cruelty, I doubt she will ever forgive _you_ for standing by and letting it happen.”

            _No,_ Ned thought, dropping his own spoon into his own soup and shoving it all aside, _I doubt she will._ Somehow, he knew that Jon would never hate him. _He should. It’s all my fault. I lied and lied and lied, fooled the whole of the Seven Kingdoms into believing that I was a man of honor, almost believed it myself…_

**_Promise me, Ned…_ **

**** **_Promise me…_ **

He drained his cup, poured himself another, drained that one, poured more. His head began to swim, he had never been much of a drinker, and what his dead friend’s favorite vintage lacked in taste and refinement it more than made up for in potency, but it was hard to stop.

            _On the morrow, I will give up most of what remains of my honor, and when I make it back to my family, I will fall to my knees and give up the rest of what remains, and if I die? My daughter knows the truths that will finish the job._

Ned wondered if the son of his body and the son of his soul would toss his bones into the nearest well. A part of him wished that they would, knew that they wouldn’t. _They’re better men than me._

“The lords of the Seven Kingdoms may demand Jon set Roslin aside,” he heard himself saying, as if from far away. 

            “If he’s anything like you, my lord, _and I strongly suspect that he is,_ he will tell them to bugger off.”

            Ned smiled. He shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t help it. _Aye, better men than me, indeed._ “They may not like the idea of a Frey for a Queen.”

            “Then it’s a good thing I do not wish for Jon to be King, my lord.”

            Ned didn’t know what to make of that, so he looked out the window, drinking his dead friend’s wine. He watched clouds glide across a sky burnt a startling shade of blue by the heat of late summer. Autumn was coming, he had seen it at Winterfell, felt it as the summer snows dappled his children’s hair with glittering flicks of white, but here at King’s Landing, winter felt far away.

            _Winter is coming, though. Our words are always right, in the end._

_Would that I had listened._

“Why did they do it?” he heard himself ask. He had drained another cup, poured another one after that. His soup was cooling, turning into a greasy, congealed swamp, and the wine was not sitting well on his half-empty stomach, but he couldn’t quite muster the strength to care. “Do you know?”

            Varys shrugged, and Ned turned away from the window just long enough to see that the shrug, _the lack of knowledge,_ was true. “I have often wondered that myself, my lord,” Varys said, regarded the contents of his own cup. “For Rhaegar, I can guess, and feel something akin to surety. Our late crown prince was obsessed with prophecy. _The dragon must have three heads,_ he was heard to say, but Princess Elia had only two children, and both near killed her. The maesters said a third child would finish her for sure. Prince Rhaegar only married Elia out of duty, but he was fond of her, anyone could see that. His dragon had to have a third head, and that third head had to come from somewhere.” Varys slumped back in his chair and heaved a sigh as heavy as the lock that barred Ned’s door. “As for why your sister went along with it, though, only the gods know, unless your lordship has a better idea.”

            Ned shook his head. “No,” he lied, “I don’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Ned, can't ever manage to tell the whole truth, can you...
> 
> There are times of late when I wonder if I'm not only the only person who reads GRRM's random ass attempts at writing academic monographs, but also the only person who enjoys them. But then I write a story like this, and discover that I'm not the only dweeb in the English speaking world, and that makes me happy. Which is kind of weird, because I've...shall we say...lost a lot of faith in GRRM over the past few years. He has revealed himself as a prickly little douchebag who's not near as clever as he thinks he is, which only goes to show that you shouldn't learn too much about your heroes, and we won't even get into how there are...shall we say...elements of his fiction, both within the ASOIAF universe and without that make one wonder what his internet search history looks like. I mean, surely I'm not the only one who reads how he writes about young girls and feels...icky, right? Like, I get the whole write within the confines of the setting and all, but...um...dude. 
> 
> But that's neither here nor there. A lot's going to happen in this weeks updates. I hope you're ready.
> 
> Quick sidenote, though...one of you keeps commenting nothing more than, the chapters are too short. Like...the fuck? How long do you think they need to be? I'm genuinely asking. As long as I've been writing, since I was a dumbfuck teen writing blatant self-insert Star Trek fanfic, I've been told I write too much. Writing too little is a new critique for me.
> 
> Moving on! In Wednesday's episode, Arya has a bit of a day. Stay tuned!


	63. Arya

ON THE FIFTH DAY, GENDRY FINALLY SPOKE. It was morning, and they were sitting opposite each other in the inn’s common room, spooning bland porridge into their mouths, munching on bacon cooked until it was black as coal, sipping penny ale so diluted it was practically water and counting themselves lucky. The so-called merchant had paid the innkeep well; they had their own room, a mattress that had been cleaned sometime in the past year, and at meal time, they got to sit at an actual table. Sure, it was a long, communal table, it surface scratched and scored with countless names and curses and dirty pictures, and the benches wobbled every time someone stood or sat, but they were able to sit. Other customers had to sit at the other, _worse_ table, and those who came to eat but not to renteven a fraction of a room had to sit on a floor of hard-packed earth, eating the charred dregs of the porridge pot amid filthy rushes littered with only the gods knew what. Those were the only customers Jeyne truly felt sorry for. The riverlands were on fire and the rumors had it that Lord Renly was marching a massive army up the roseroad, and the city was drowning in refugees. It was them who came to wolf down a few bites before trudging out to pursue even the slightest rumor of work. Jeyne watched them sometimes, watched as mothers and fathers gave their shares of burnt porridge to their children, listened as babes screamed because their mothers’ breasts no longer produced milk.

            Every once in a while, a family with a crying babe would return, the babe nowhere to be found, the parents’ eyes red-rimmed and angry. Jeyne did her best to not think about those families. When she did, she couldn’t help but remember her time on the streets, about the kindly-looking man who had walked among the nooks and crannies and alleyways, a lantern swinging in his hand as a woman walked beside him. _You’re pretty enough, come with me, you’ll eat your fill, and as for the other thing, it’s better than starving, isn’t it?_

            Sometimes, a family would come in with a pretty daughter or a comely son, and a few days later, they’d be sitting at the worse table instead of on the floor, eyes filled with shame, their pretty daughter or their comely son nowhere to be seen.

            Jeyne did her best to ignore those people, as well. She felt for them, but she didn’t want to think about them. She had enough problems without piling on anyone else’s.

            For the other customers, though, Jeyne felt no sympathy. The dregs of the Seven Kingdoms seemed to wash in and out of the inn, weatherbeaten sailors and hardworking whores and bent-backed laborers and scarred sellswords hungry for war. Sometimes, one of _those_ customers would get handsy with the serving wenches or balk at a whore’s price, and then a tall, burly man built like an ox would appear as if from nowhere, and most of the time, the customer would back down. Those that didn’t found themselves hurled through the front door, or worse, like the Tyroshi sailor who had tried to take one of the whores by force, right there in front of everybody. He’d been carried out insensate, his face smashed in by the ox-man’s club, and for a few days afterwards, the innkeep had japed about how everyone should avoid something called _Flea Bottom brown_ for a fortnight or so.

            Yes, the inn was like something out of a nightmare, and Gendry, somehow, made it _worse._ It would have been easier, Jeyne felt, if she had had someone to talk to. Even when Old Sybilla had worked her to the bone, Jeyne had always had Willow to giggle with at night. Now, though, she was left alone, with no one but Gendry, and Gendry said not a word. He brooded through every hour of every day, slouching from their room to table and back again, shrouded in a thick, impenetrable cloud of misery.

            It was enough to make Jeyne want to tear her hair out and _scream,_ and not just because she was lonely and frightened. The thing was, she _needed_ Gendry. The strange, so-called merchant with the piercing eyes that knew more than they should had brought them here, paid for a month’s worth of lodging and decent food, had even given Jeyne a bag heavy with coppers and a few silvers, but she trusted the man not one bit. He knew who she once had been, and the fact that he seemed vaguely familiar only made her more uneasy. She needed to get out of King’s Landing, and she needed to get out _now._ Lord Stannis had galleys prowling the Blackwater Rush, but rumor had it that ships were still coming and going from Maidenpool. If she could get to Maidenpool, they had just enough coin to get a berth on a ship, at least, mayhaps even a portion of a cabin, and if they could do that, they could get to White Harbor. _If I can get to White Harbor,_ she thought, _I’ll be safe. Someone in the Merman’s Court will know me, Lord Manderly perhaps, or a member of his household. At the very least, they’ll send word to Winterfell, and then I can go **home.**_ The thought made her sad, in a strange, unsettling way. She _liked_ being Jeyne. People _liked_ Jeyne. Jeyne had friends and value and no one ever called Jeyne _Horseface_ or cared that she was rubbish at knitting patterns, and when she needed a dagger, Old Sybilla hadn’t bothered with a speech about the _proper role and responsibilities of a young lady,_ no, the old woman had just _given her one._

_If I get to White Harbor, I’ll never be Jeyne again. I’ll be Arya again._

She looked up from her porridge, glared at Gendry across the table from her. _Not that it matters,_ she silently raged. _There’s no war in the crownlands, and I’ve got Needle and I’ve got the dagger Old Sybilla gave me, but I’d be a fool to try to make it to Maidenpool on my own. I need a **friend** , gods-dammit, and the only friend I’ve got left is a stupid, morose boy who won’t stop glowering and pouting and brooding long enough to look up and talk to me. **Gods,** I thought **Jon** could brood, but this great big lumbering oaf could give him a run for his-_

“You don’t like it here.”

            Jeyne blinked, felt her days-old expression of ice cold fury slip away. “What?” she said, hoping that she didn’t look like a fish in a bowl, suspecting that any such hopes were fruitless.

            Gendry shrugged, still not looking up from his bowl. “This place. You don’t like it here.”

            Jeyne looked over to the where the entrance to the back stairwell loomed in glimmering darkness. A man was coming out, looking relieved, _relaxed,_ even, pausing to say something to one of the men waiting in line. They all threw back their heads and laughed, were still laughing when Maggy, one of the whores who plied their trade upstairs, stuck her head out and snarled, “Come on, then, I haven’t got all day.” Jeyne looked away, found herself watching as Maggy’s son came in to whisper something in the innkeep’s ear while Maggy’s two daughters served out food and drink. _And somewhere in the back,_ Jeyne recalled, _Maggy’s got another son, turning a spit._

            “Well,” Jeyne admitted, turning back to Gendry, “there’s not much to like, is there?” He grunted, but did not look up, concentrating on his food. It made Jeyne went to grab him by the back of the head and smash his face into his porridge. The knowledge that Willow wasn’t there to make her be nice to Gendry made Jeyne fell both sad, angry, and tempted. “Why,” she continued, savoring the mental image of Gendry’s face dripping with gruel, “something about the atmosphere appeal to you?”

            Gendry shrugged. “Oh, no, it’s awful, but I guess I’m... _used to it,_ is all. I grew up in a place like this, before me mum died and that weird merchant came and apprenticed me to Master Mott.” His eyes flitted up for a moment, and for the first time in five days, Jeyne felt true, honest hope blossom in her chest. It was, after all, the most life Gendry had shown since they’d turned a corner on the Street of Steel and lost sight of the smithy. “Life wasn’t like this for you, back in the North?”

            Jeyne shook her head. “Gods no. I grew up in Winterfell. I told you, my father was a member of Lord Stark’s guard, and my mother worked in the kitchens.”

            Gendry’s eyes lingered on her for a moment, before flicking back to his food, leaving Jeyne to bite down on a frustrated scream. “He died when the Lannisters arrested Lord Stark, your father did?”

            Jeyne shrugged. “I don’t know, but probably.” It was, after all, the most likely fate for Jeyne’s guardsman father. The Lannisters hadn’t spared Fat Tom, who was no danger to anyone, so why should they spare any of the other guardsmen? _Of course, Arya Stark’s father was quite alive, sitting in a cell._ Rumor on the streets had it that any day now, Lord Stark would be dragged out on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, there to _confess his many treasons,_ but Jeyne didn’t believe a word of it. “And even if he’s still alive, how would I ever find out?”

            “True,” Gendry admitted. “At least you know your father, though.”

            “Your mother never told you?”

            “Honestly, I’m not sure even my mother knew.” He pointed at the line of men, waiting for their turn to go upstairs. “For all I know, it could be one of _them._ ”

            Jeyne give the line a quick once-over before she sneered. “Gods, I hope not. Best hope for a foriegn sailor, if I was you.”

            Jeyne would never know how or why, but _that_ was the comment that finally made Gendry look up from his misery and meet her eye-to-eye. Sure, he looked confused as a newborn lamb, but at least she finally had his sodding attention. “Why should I hope for a sailor, much less a foriegn one?”

            “Well, you’re not smart enough to have been sired by some passing lordling, and you’re not ugly enough have been whelped by one of _them._ Sailor seems a good choice.”

            Gendry didn’t look enlightened; if anything, his expression grew more befuddled. “If you say so...why foriegn?”

            “Why not?”

            Gendry rolled his eyes and shook his head. “One of these days, I’m going to win an argument with you, Jeyne.”

            Jeyne answered his eye roll with one of his own, only better, she felt, and far more appropriately dramatic. “We’re having a _conversation,_ Gendry, not an _argument._ In order for there to be an argument, both sides need an equal chance of _winning_.”

            “Yes, well, I’m _stronger_ than you, so that’s got to count for something.”

            “Only if you’re clever enough to make use of it.”

            The table jumped as Gendry slammed a fist down into the table. Jeyne couldn’t help that it said much about the place they were in that nobody even noticed.

            “Seven _hells,_ Jeyne, would it kill you to be nice to me for once?”

            _No,_ she thought, _but you continuing the mope about while being as useful as tits on a bull might just do the trick._ “I _am_ being nice to you,” she said, not even flinching as he glared daggers at her. “Five days we’ve been here, and not once had I called you thick as a castle wall.”

            He groaned, shoved his bowl aside, and buried his face in his hands. “Oh, by the Father, what did I ever do to deserve _this?”_ he said, his voice muffled by his palms.

            _Good question,_ Jeyne thought. _If only we knew the answer to **that,** we might have a few more options._

 _Or a few less,_ Arya Stark snapped back at her, but Jeyne chose to ignore that. She didn’t have time for arguments with herself. Death loomed over her shoulder, she could feel its hot, foul breath on the back of her neck, and she had no intention of letting it get any closer.

            _What do we say to the gods of Death?_

**_Not today._ **

“Something stupid, most like,” Jeyne said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve before shoving her mostly eaten porridge to one side. “It doesn’t matter, though, because we can’t stay here.”

            Gendry parted to his fingers, his deep blue eyes peering out through the gap. “Why not? The man said-”

            How Jeyne resisted the urge to smack Gendry upside the head, she would never know. “I know what _the man said,_ stupid. _I was there._ It’s what the man _didn’t_ say that concerns me.”

            Gendry took his hands from his face, let them fall to the table. “He said plenty, seemed to me. Robb Stark and the Bastard of Winterfell won some great victory, so now they’re negotiating for Lord Stark’s release, and apparently they want however many people he brought south who are still alive returned to them.”

            “And if you believe that, you’re dumber than you look. And you look-”

            _“Dumb as a bucket of nails and thick as a castle wall._ You need new insults, Jeyne.”

            “Bugger off,” she snapped, flipping him the V, “it’s been a long week and I’m tired. Point is, that sounds like horseshit to me, and even if it isn’t, _it doesn’t explain what he, **or anyone else for that matter,** could want with you._”

            Gendry picked up his spoon and began idly twirling it atop the table. “Who cares? Mayhaps I’m Lord Stark’s secret bastard, and Winterfell wants me back, too.”

            Jeyne laughed. “You, Lord Stark’s bastard? I’ve met Jon Snow, and you look nothing like him.”

            “Oh? And what does he look like?”

            “A damn sight better than you, though you’re more skilled at brooding, I’ll give you that.”

            Gendry chuckled. “Well, at least I’ve got _that_ going for me.” He paused, frowned at his spoon as he made it dance. “Wait...isn’t your cousin, the one who was raised as a brother, isn’t his name Jon?”

            Jeyne felt something tremble beneath her feet, as if something was threatening to shift and twist and throw her on her arse, but she ignored it. “Aye, what of it? Jon’s common as sand in Dorne north of the Neck.”

            Gendry seemed to chew on this for a moment, before heaving a heavy sigh and making his shoulders perform an even heavier shrug. “Well, you’d know better than me, I suppose.”

            “I know a good gods-damn many things better than you.”

            “Seven hells, Jeyne, would you give it a rest?”

            “I’ll give it a rest when you stop asking stupid questions and stop moping over Willow long enough to listen to me.”

            The look Gendry shot her could only be called _incredulous._ “Really? I listen to you, and you go easy on me?”

            She did her best to look sweet and innocent. “Well, at the very least I promise to give it a try.”

            His expression somehow grew even _more_ disbelieving. “Right, and I’m King Robert. I’m not dead, don’t care what the Lannisters say, I’m alive and well and this here isn’t the scum of the Seven Kingdoms, oh no, it’s my loyal and steadfast army, ready to storm the Red Keep.”

            Jeyne considered that. Gendry _did_ look a bit like King Robert, or, at least, she thought so. Arya had never paid much attention to the King, and Jeyne never had the chance to get more than a distant, passing glance. _Still, those eyes…and the shoulders...and-_

The table jumped once more, but not from Gendry’s fist this time. No, a man had joined them, slumping down on the bench next to Jeyne, chuckling as he shook his head. “Well, the man was right. _Look for a spindly little girl and a great big strapping lad,_ he said. _They’ll be sitting at the nice table in the common room, and they’ll probably be bickering like close kin._ ” He flashed Jeyne a grin so stained with sourleaf that his teeth looked like he’d painted them with days-old blood. “I don’t suppose you recognize me, do you, girl?”

            The man was stooped, an impression made worse by his twisted shoulder. He had course, ugly features that he attempted to hide with a thick, matted beard, but somehow the beard only made him look more sinister. He smelled awful, as if he had never bothered to bath, and his clothes were worn and tattered and had long since faded to grey. 

            The hilt of his sword was clean, though, the scabbard battered and worn but gleaming from a fresh polishing, and for all that his garments were now grey, a passing glance could see that they had once been black as pitch.

            “You’re Yoren,” she blurted. “The wandering brother what came to Winterfell all those times.”

            “A sharp one, you are,” Yoren admitted, tapping his nose and winking before flagging over a passing wench. “Your finest, if you please,” he said, dropping a handful of coppers into her palm, “and some ale, I think. _Real_ ale, not whatever piss you serve to these children.”As for you,” he said, turning back to Jeyne, “like I said, you’re a sharp one. The man said so, and he’s been right so far, much as it pains me to admit. I must say I’m surprised you remember me, though; you only ever saw me from afar.”

            Jeyne didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t so much as shrug or let her eyes shift the slightest bit to the side. _He knows who I was._

_He knows I used to be Arya Stark._

“Your stench is hard to forget,” she said, her voice hard and cold.

            She’d intended to offend, but the sally fell flat. Yoren slapped his knee and hooted with laughter, was still chuckling when the serving wench returned with a mug frothing with ale, a bowl of steaming porridge, a heel of bread, and rag with burnt bacon piled atop it. He took it all with something akin to grace before downing a big gulp of his ale. He wiped his lips, sighed with happiness, and let out a few more chuckles. “Aye,” he said, “the man warned me about your tongue, too. _Sharp as Valyrian steel,_ he said it was.”

            Jeyne felt a surge of pride, forced it down. She didn’t want to be distracted. “Why are you here?” She didn’t bother to ask who this _man_ was; somehow, she doubted that he had worn the same face for Yoren as he had for her and Gendry, suspected that further inquiries would accomplish little good and might bring much harm. “What do you want with us?”

            “Well, as to him,” Yoren said, jerking a thumb a deeply confused Gendry, “I’m to take him out of the city. Normally, I’d make you pledge to join the Watch first,” he continued, turning his gaze to Gendry, “but the man what sent me here did me a good turn in finding me sweet little Jeyne, so I figured doing him a good turn by way of you squares the ledger.”

            Gendry’s eyebrows were threatening to leap off his brow and disappear into his thick, black hair. “I...uh...what would I join the Watch?”

            “No reason you should,” Yoren admitted, “though, seems to me, no reason you shouldn’t. We’re always short of men on the Wall, and we could make good use of a big strapping lad such as yourself. Three meals a day, a cot to sleep in, something approaching a roof over your head, and I don’t doubt that good ole’ Donal Noye would be glad to have you working a forge alongside him.”

            Jeyne watched as Gendry took that all in, his head slowly bobbing up-and-down, up-and-down. “I’ll think about it.”

            Yoren smiled, bits of sourleaf in his teeth making the result somewhat grotesque. “Glad to hear it, boy, but we’ll have plenty of time to talk on it later. As I said, you’re the favor I had to agree to in order to get here, but,” he paused, turned his gaze back to Jeyne, “it’s this young lady that I’m actually here for.”

            “What, _Jeyne?_ ” Gendry spluttering. “Why in the name of the Seven would you care about _Jeyne?”_

“Because,” Yoren said, his eyes boring holes into Jeyne’s own, “Winterfell has always been good to the Watch, and when I get the chance to return the favor, I take it.” He took another gulp of his ale, set it on the table with a _thunk._ “You look a little confused, girl.”

            “I am,” Jeyne admitted. “How could I not be?”

            Yoren shrugged. “Fair enough. Point is, I’m here to take you home. Well,” he paused, making a face as he picked up his spoon, “I’m here to take you to Riverrun. It’s a long road to Witnerfell from there, true, but you’ve got to start somewhere.” He spooned a big lump of porridge into his mouth, swallowed, made a face. “ _Gods,_ that’s horrid. How the fuck do you _burn_ porridge?”

Jeyne shrugged. “I’ve wondered that myself, but I’m afraid to know the answer.”

Yoren laughed, slapping his knee as he ate. “Oh, you are _clever._ You’ll be a delight to have on the road; I’m sure that tongue of yours doesn’t get old at _all._ ” At that, Gendry snorted, making Yoren laugh even more. “That bad, eh? Well, at least the trip won’t be boring.”

“Boring or not,” Jeyne said, trying desperately to ignore the way her heart was thudding away in her chest, bursting with joy and delight, “the important thing is, you’re taking me to Riverrun.”

            “Well,” Yoren admitted, his voice garbling a bit by a mouthful of porridge, “ _tomorrow_ we set off up the kingsroad, me, the two of you, and my thirty recruits, but before _that,_ ” he swallowed, washed the porridge down with a gulp of ale, “we’ve a stop to make.”

            In an instant, Jeyne was on guard. She considered trying to start moving a hand towards the dagger at her waist, but something small and cautious warned her that Yoren would notice, no matter how sneaky she tried to be. “What stop is that?” she asked instead, doing nothing to hide her suspicion.

            “Why,” Yoren said, smacking his lips, setting aside his ale, and bending back over his porridge, “I’m going to take you see your father, of course. Mind, you won’t get to talk to him, but you’ll get to see him, that I promise you. Sound good?”

            In days to come, Jeyne would have good cause to regret her reaction to those words. After all, it was the first time Gendry had ever seen her lost for words, and he would never let her live it down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God damn, it was a bitch to get this typed out and posted. It hasn't even been properly proofread, for which I apologize profusely, but it was about damn time that I got it posted, and overall, I'm happy with how it turned out. I have no real excuse for why there was no update on Wednesday; life just got in the way for a few days. But you guys mean the world to me, and I was determined to get something out to on... *checks time* You know what? Let's just pretend that it's still Friday and move on.
> 
> Also, I got a complaint about formatting, so I'm trying something new out. Let me know if it's any better. See, guys? I do listen, though it's not entirely my fault. As has been pointed out before, FF.net is a fucking dinosaur, and its format is a fucking horror show. 
> 
> Moving on! In the next episode, which God willing will go up sometime this weekend, Sansa has something to say to Sandor Clegane. Stay tuned!


	64. Sansa

SHE BROKE HER FAST WITH THE PRINCESS MYRCELLA. Most of her mornings were like that, breaking her fast with _somebody._ Sometimes it was Myrcella and her entourage, sometimes it was the Queen and _her_ entourage, sometimes it was breaking her fast with her _own_ entourage, the ladies and the septa the Queen had given her, _the ladies and the septa Sansa had once been oh so grateful for._ Through it all, Sansa smiled and laughed and was ever so courteous. _A lady’s armor is her courtesy,_ and Sansa cloaked herself in courtesy, buried herself beneath thick plates of it until she could hardly breathe. She ate with courtesy, walked with courtesy, prayed with courtesy, slept with courtesy, when a scullery maid came in the morning for her chamber pot, she handed it over with courtesy. When she joined Myrcella and the princess’s ladies for knitting practice, she knit with courtesy, and when the Queen bombarded her with questions that did not sound like questions but which carried in their subtle pauses and cold silences the swing of the headsman’s axe, Sansa lied and prevaricated and equivocated and, when all else failed, _sobbed like a child,_ but she did it all with courtesy.

            For the first time in Sansa’s now six-and-ten years, she finally understood why Arya had hated it all so much. It was just so...so...so _exhausting._ She felt adrift, alone. At dinner a few days before, there had been a puppet show, and the effort not to burst into tears at sympathy with the puppets had almost broken Sansa in two. _At no point in my life have I ever been master of my own fate,_ Father had said in the pitch-black quiet of the godswood, the flickering light of the torch making his face look like that of a monster, _and now, gods help me, I must pass that burden on to you._

            _I do not know if I will ever leave this place,_ he had said, his voice as hard and cold and brittle as the breeze on a winter’s morning, bitter tears trembling at the corners of his eyes, _but you might, which means, gods damn me to the blackest and coldest hell, you must carry my confession to your mother, your sister, your brothers…_

**_And your cousin…_ **

Every night since, Sansa had gone to sleep, begging the gods both old and new that on the morrow, for once, she would be given a moment’s peace. Every morning, the sun rose, the Queen’s sour-faced, sharp-tongued septa shook her awake, and she acknowledged the gods’ denial with courtesy, _always with courtesy._ That morning, the morning of the day her lord father would stand before gods and men on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor and confess every treason except the ones he had actually committed, was no different. The night before, Sansa went to sleep begging the gods for a touch of mercy, and come morning, the septa shook her awake, snapped that one of the princess’s ladies had come, begging Sansa to come and break their fast together. Every fiber of Sansa’s being wanted to curse them all to the lowest and hottest of the seven hells, wanted to smash her chamber pot over the hag of a septa’s harridan face, wanted to scream and cry and tear her clothes asunder.

            Instead, Sansa rose, smiled, and accepted the princess’s invitation with courtesy.

            _Always with courtesy…_

There was a moment, brief, brittle, fragile as new-made glass, right after Sansa’s guards and entourage deposited her in Myrcella’s rooms, that Sansa hated her newfound awareness. Myrcella was everything her siblings and her mother were not, beautiful, yes, but delicate, courteous, with golden curls and eyes the color of emeralds. The Queen’s eyes were always glimmering with things even she seemed afraid to give voice to, Joffrey’s eyes glittered with foul, hideous, slithering things Sansa couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen before, even Tommen, poor, sweet, soft Tommen, his eyes were kind, gentle, _simple,_ he was the same age as Bran and yet Bran was already older and more mature than Tommen would ever be, but Myrcella? When Myrcella ran to the door and embraced Sansa as a sister, Sansa believed her. In Myrcella, there was only truth, and in those moments, when Myrcella embraced her as even Arya never had, Sansa found herself wishing she had never walked into the darkness of the godswood and heard her father’s confessions.

            It only lasted a moment, and then it was gone. _It is time to grow up,_ Father had said. _I’m so sorry, we did not prepare you as we should have, but it’s still time to grow up._ So, she embraced Myrcella with courtesy, laughed and giggled with courtesy, ate with courtesy.

            All Sansa did, she did with courtesy, even when it was the last thing she wanted to do.

            “You mustn’t be so tense,” Myrcella was saying, as Sansa cracked open the shell of a hard-boiled egg with a spoon. 

            Sansa smiled, _with courtesy,_ set aside her spoon, the egg only half-cracked. “I know I shouldn’t be,” she said, and it felt as if her voice came from far away, she felt as if someone else was speaking, someone who stood at the end of a long tunnel. _Trust no one,_ Father had said. _Trust no one. Never forget that it was Tywin Lannister who gave the orders that led to a babe in arms having its head smashed against a wall. Never forget that it was one of his knights who stabbed a little girl to death with half-a-hundred blows._

_Never forget poor Elia Martell…_

Sansa fought down the memory, fought down the bile that burned at the back of her throat. _Trust no one, Father?_ she had asked, _snarled,_ really. _What about you?_

_Me, least of all…_

**_Me, least of all…_ **

“I’m just…” Sansa took a deep breath, let it out, _let it shake and quiver, let tears prick and burn at the corners of her eyes._ “My father...he’s a traitor...he confessed it to me himself…” _Cloak your lies in truth,_ Father had said. “Lord Renly deceived him, your father the King said horrid things about my beloved Joffrey when he was in his cups, he…” She gasped, let her voice break, buried her face in her hands, and when her shoulders began to shake, it wasn’t all artifice. “ _He thought he was doing what was best…”_

She burst into tears, she sobbed and she cried, and when Myrcella took Sansa in her arms, Sansa poured her sorrows into the girl’s shoulder.

            But always with courtesy.

            There was a moment when Sansa almost believed everything would turn out alright. She could see it playing out like some mummer’s farce, but a mummer’s farce that was real, so real she felt as if she could reach out and touch it. The square was packed, the smallfolk of King’s Landing were bellowing and screaming and hurling rotten food at her father, and her father, so thin, _so human,_ stood and endured it all, but there was a single prick of faded black amid the sea of brown, a stooped, sinister-looking man smiling a sourleaf-stained grin, a hand resting lightly upon the hilt of his sword, and Sansa knew it would be alright. Father would _confess,_ Joffrey would accept, Father would pledge himself to the Night’s Watch, and Sansa wouldn’t have to bear the burden of her father’s confession any longer. Everything would be okay, _everything would be alright,_ there was nothing to worry about, _she could breathe easy,_ it hadn’t all been a mummer’s farce, _it had all been nothing but the truth._

 _“My brother has promised to show mercy,”_ Myrcella had said that morning, as Sansa had wiped her eyes, their hard-boiled eggs long forgotten. _“Why else have your lord father paraded before the Sept of Baelor?”_

            And it had all gone according to plan. The bells had tolled, Father had spoken, the High Septon had called for silence. In the end, the roar and tumult of the mob had stilled, and Father had spoken again, after being drowned out by the crowd the first time around. “I am Eddard Stark,” he had said, “Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, and I come before you to confess my treason before gods and men.”

            The crowd had roared once more, angrier, _nastier,_ but Sansa’s eyes had been locked on Joffrey. Joffrey had looked... _bored,_ was carefully examining his nails, and Sansa’s heart had lifted and danced. _He wants to go back to shooting his new crossbow at rabbits,_ she thought. _He’ll give Father the Wall, and that’ll be the end of it._

_Everything’s going to be alright…_

And Father confessed. _Oh, gods, did he confess._ He said everything he had been told to say, _everything he had told Sansa he would say,_ confessed to every treason except the treasons he had actually committed, and the mob roared for his blood. Through it all, Joffrey fidgeted and sighed and curled his lips into an expression of boredom and disdain, and Sansa hoped, she hoped and she prayed, even as she stood arm-in-arm with the Queen, draped and armored in courtesy. It was going to happen, _it was really going to happen,_ Father would confess and he would go to the Wall and cooler heads would prevail and Jon would go back north and who knows, mayhaps Sansa would meet who her new cousin-in-law, mayhaps Sansa would get to hold a precious little babe in her arms, _it would all be over, everything would be alright…_

“As we sin, so do we suffer,” the High Septon intoned, his arms held high, a crystal sparkling from his right hand. “This man has confessed his crimes in the sight of gods and men, here in this holy place.” Rainbows danced around his head as he lifted the crystal ever higher. “The gods are just, yet Blessed Baelor,” a nod of the head towards the towering statue of Baelor the Blessed, “taught us that they are also merciful. What shall be done with this traitor, Your Grace?”

            Sansa looked to Joffrey, hope making her soul dance and sing, and Joffrey looked back at her. His lips curled into a sneer, and something blacker than the darkest, coldest hell slithered in his eyes. He looked at her, he sneered, and a tongue slipped out and licked his lips.

            Sansa saw, knew, closed her eyes, and screamed until her throat was raw.

            She opened her eyes, looked up. The Hound was standing before her, _looming over her,_ and he was offering her a kerchief.

            She stared at the kerchief. “Where are we?” It hurt to speak. Her throat felt as if she had swallowed a knife.

            “In the Great Sept,” the Hound said, his voice soft, low, _almost kind._ “You’d best wipe yourself off, little bird, or at least get a start on it. The Queen has sent someone to fetch you a new dress.”

            Sansa blinked, eyes locked on the proffered kerchief. “Why would I need a new dress?”

            “Because your current one is covered in blood.”

            Sansa looked down, and saw it was true. Her dress, _her finest dress, the Queen picked it out special for this special day,_ was soaked in blood, her hands were caked in it. “How did that happen?” she asked in a voice not her own.

            “You ran towards your father, girl,” the Hound said. “You tried to catch his head as it went bouncing off. It took a half-dozen gold cloaks to pull you off him.”

            Sansa nodded. She didn’t remember any of it, but it sounded true, so she accepted it, _with courtesy._ “If you say so. I don’t remember it.”

            “No,” the Hound admitted, sounding like he was talking to a particularly dim child, “I would imagine not. I don’t remember when my brother burned me. I remember the look on his face, I remember him grabbing me, I remember the smell of my own flesh sizzling in the fire, but I don’t remember actually being burned.”

            Sansa looked up, quickly looked away. She wasn’t sure what to make of the Hound’s expression, but she knew she couldn’t handle it. _Not then. Not with courtesy._ “If you say so.” She took a deep breath, let it out, did her best to ignore how much it hurt. “You’re the only one who never lied to me.”

            “I never will, little bird.”

            “Why do you care?”

            “...if I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. Take the napkin, little bird, a long day awaits you.”

            Sansa looked up, smiled, took the kerchief, began to dab the blood from her face, smiling all the while, always with courtesy. She even said _thank you,_ because of course she did.

            She was a good girl, and always remembered her courtesies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Ned...
> 
> I know a lot of you wanted me to save Ned. Jesus Christ, I wanted to save Ned. The problem is, so long as Joffrey is there, Ned's head will always roll. Joffrey is the problem, and the only way to save Ned is to cobble together some way to keep Joffrey away from the Great Sept of Baelor. Maybe Joffrey is angry about the Whispering Wood, maybe Joffrey is pissed that people are telling him what to do, maybe Joffrey fully intended to pardon Ned, looked at Sansa, and saw a chance to be a mean little shit. God only knows, because I'm sure Joffrey doesn't.
> 
> Moving on! In Wednesday's episode, we get a start on the denoument. Stay tuned!


	65. Jaime

THEY CAME FOR HIM IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. There was no preamble, no warning, nothing but a key _thunking_ in the lock and then the door flying open so hard it bounced off the wall and swung back to hit the third man through full in the face. Jaime would’ve laughed himself sick if he’d seen it, but alas, the first two men, the ones who had blessed by the gods to avoid said door, had already seized both ends of his bed and tipped him onto the ground. Jaime hit the hard cold stone in a cacophony of jangling chains and his own bellowed curses. He was still trying to untangle himself from his chains and his sheets, uttering a string of curses harsh enough to make even his brother’s ears burn, when more guards flooded into the room. Some held torches high in the air, while others held bared steel that glittered and flashed in the flickering light. Gauntleted hands seized his arms and yanked him to his feet, while other hands pulled his hands forward so hard that he yelped in pain. Shackles of ugly iron black as pitch and pitted with a thousand-thousand scratches and gouges slammed shut on his wrists, when a man turned the key in the lock, the _click_ sounded like the end of the world. Sleep fogged his mind, clouded his vision, and the harsh light of a dozen torches did not help. He squinted, still cursing, was vaguely aware of a man kneeling on the ground, looped yet another chain through the one that connected the fresh shackles on his wrists and locking it into place around the chain connecting the shackles on his ankles. The chains were tugged, _hard,_ Jaime would’ve fallen if the grip of the men holding his arms had been anything less than vice-like, and then the man who was kneeling was standing instead, his back turned. He was speaking to someone else, someone who loomed, tall and lean, in the doorway, a shadow framed by torches that guttered and danced in breezes none could feel.

            Jaime recognized the voice that answered in an instant. It was hoarse, raspy, _smoky,_ somehow. For a moment, he was no longer Jaime Lannister, Knight of the Kingsguard, Kingslayer, Sister Fucker. No, he was a boy once more, a child, really, when he had a moment to think on it. He was squiring for Lord Sumner Crakehall, and Lord Sumner, in the midst of fighting the Kingswood Brotherhood, had sent Jaime with a message to Riverrun. Lord Hoster kept Jaime for a fortnight, and for every single one of those nights, Jaime was sat at table, _above the salt,_ a rare honor of a squire, the chairs so crowded together that Jaime couldn’t help but rub literal shoulders with a shy, quiet, mouse-like Lysa Tully. The Lady Lysa kept trying to speak to Jaime, but he ignored her. How could he not? He wanted to hear tales of knighthood and war and battle and glory and chivalry.

            He wanted to hear about the War of the Ninepenny Kings, from a man who was there.

            Jaime looked up at the man in the doorway and smiled. “Ser Brynden.” He bowed his head. “To what do I owe the honor?”

            Ser Brynden Tully stepped into the room, the flickering light of the torches making his craggy, windburnt face looked ever more lined and weathered than usual. “Kingslayer,” Ser Brynden snarled, the deep blue eyes that had glittered with laughter and amusement at the antics of an overeager squire gone chill, leeched of even the slightest hint of humanity.

            Jaime bit down on a sigh. _It always comes back to Aerys, doesn’t it?_ “My name,” he said, answering the Blackfish’s snarl with a sneer of his own, “is _Jaime,_ ser. _Ser_ Jaime, as it happens. If you don’t begrudge young Jon a _ser,_ surely you won’t begrudge me mine.”

            Somehow, the Blackfish’s eyes grew harder, _colder._ “Why should I begrudge the boy anything? He’s got more honor in his little toes than you will ever know.”

            _Well, he’s got a point,_ Jaime admitted, to himself at least. Once he had dreamed of growing up to become Ser Arthur Dayne, _the Sword of the Morning,_ but that dream had died a long time ago, splashed across the Iron Throne as Jaime slashed the Mad King’s throat. _I killed one king, cuckholded another, and pushed an innocent little boy from a window._ As well wish for Tyrion to become tall as hope for my honor to return to me, if I ever had any. 

            _Funny you should mention your brother,_ a voice whispered, soft, gentle, _feminine,_ echoing through the part of his mind that lingered in his dreams.

            Jaime felt his body stiffen, his cheeks stinging as if he had just been slapped. _Shut up. Shut up shut up **shut up SHUT-**_

“You’re being moved,” Ser Brynden finally said, the man turning on his heel and making for the door.

            “To where?” Jaime asked.

            The Blackfish stopped, a mere shadow dancing in the doorway. “Does it matter?”

            Jaime shrugged. “Well, if I’m being moved to the block, I intend to take a few of you with me. Slayer of kings I may be, but I won’t have any man say that I went meekly to my death.” He spread his hands, or, at least, tried to; the shackles on his wrists had been chained rather tight, the bite of the iron making him wince. “I have a reputation to maintain, after all.”

            The Blackfish snorted. “ _Indeed,”_ he said, as if Jaime had just described, _in intimate detail,_ how much Cersei liked it when he pulled on her hair while he fucked her from behind. “You’re not going to the block.”

            Jaime wagged a finger at the man in the door. “That doesn’t answer my question, ser.”

            Ser Brynden glared at him, or at least, Jaime thought that was what was happening. All Jaime knew was that a shadowy, ill-defined shape seemed to be looking over an equally shadowy, equally ill-defined shoulder, and the look was making Jaime’s flesh crawl. 

            “If you know what’s good for you,” the shadow said, “you’ll keep your fat mouth shut.” The shadow turned away. “Come, we don’t have all day.”

            “Who ever said I knew what was good for me?” Jaime pointed out, as the guards began to drag him towards the door.

            “Good point,” Ser Brynden admitted. “Gag him. At least them the fool will stop smiling at me.”

            As a ball of foul-tasting wool was shoved into his mouth, Jaime couldn’t help but think of Tyrion. The brothers had always assumed that it was _Tyrion_ who would die due to a big mouth unrestrained by caution or restraint. There was a queer sort of justice, Jaime felt, in it being _him_ who might die of such an ailment.

            _You keep thinking of your brother,_ the voice from before whispered. _Interesting...care to elaborate…?_

_Shut up shut up **SHUT UP-**_

Jaime’s cell was high in one of Riverrun’s towers, as befitted his birth and station. He had a lovely view of the sprawling camp of the Young Wolf’s host, and of the stumps of trees felled by Jaime’s own army during the siege spreading out into the rolling hills beyond, hills that were themselves crisscrossed with trenches, wagon furrows, and the occasional latrine pit. Sometimes, when Jaime cared to look, he even caught sight of men squatting over those very latrine pits. It was enough to make him thankful when men came to walk him around the yard every other day. He might have been one step away from a toy dog being around on a leash, and the sight of young men battering away at each other had a tendency to get very droll, very quick, but at least he wasn’t trying to ignore men squatting over pits they hadn’t even dug.

            There was a joke lurking somewhere in there, he knew. Tyrion would’ve been able to find it.

            _Again, your thoughts turn to-_

**_ENOUGH JUST LEAVE ME ALONE FOR THE LOVE OF-_ **

Jaime’s cell was high in a tower, and Ser Brynden and his men, each of whom sported the fish-crest helms of Riverrun’s household guards, took him down. Everything was down. They went down halls, down stairs, down more halls and more stairs. They moved in silence, the only sound the clink and clatter of the guards’ armor and mail, the whisper of the torches, and the rhythmic thud of their boots. The torches did queer things to their shadows, painting the walls with shapes made monstrous and grotesque. Jaime watched the monsters at first, fascinated, but then his mind turned and he remembered another hall, a hall black as hell that stretched off beyond the sight of gods and men, a hall lit with torches that weren’t torches. Fingers of ice tip-toed up Jaime’s spine until he looked away from the walls and concentrated on Ser Brynden’s back. It didn’t make Jaime feel any better, but at least the icy fingers halted their march.

As they marched, the air grew cold, still, _almost rank,_ the stench of unwashed man and overflowing chamberpots hitting Jaime’s face like a slap when a heavy wood-and-iron door swung open at the pounding of Ser Brynden’s mailed fist. More torches waited on the other side, torches held by even more fish-crest-helmed guards, men who looked on with silence and loathing as Jaime shuffled past them. Every breath Jaime took was moldy and damp, thick and tasting of shit and despair, a sensation that finally answered the question the Blackfish had so pointedly refused to answer.

 _I’m being taking to the dungeons,_ he realized, with a flash of surprise and a stab of fear. _The real ones, this time._

_No tower cell for me, I suppose. Not anymore._

His mind tried to conjure up every possible reason for this, but Jaime ignored it every one of them. Something had happened, _something bad,_ and it was starting to seem as if Jaime would be punished for it.

Which, Jaime had to admit, was rather _fair._

_Doesn’t mean I have to like it._

Their progress stopped as suddenly as it had begun. They passed heavy wood-and-iron door after heavy wood-and-iron door, their way lit by torches hung in embrasures of iron as rough and ready as the shackles around his wrists. They turned first one corner, then another, then another after that, armored men lining the walls, hands resting on sword hilts or fingers curled tight around spears. There was a moment when Jaime began to doubt that he was truly awake. It was all too much like the endless black hallway of his nightmares to seem truly _real._ He kept expecting the Blackfish and the guards to vanish into the darkness, the torches to gutter out, the tiny hand of a girl in a blood-soaked dress to reach out and yank him back. A scream curdled in his gut, clawed its way up his throat, roared in his ears. He found himself praying, to what or to whom he didn’t know, couldn’t have begun to say. 

He kept expecting to die.

But then they reached a door. It was heavy, made of dark, damp-stained wood banded in iron so black it was almost sinister. The guards forced Jaime to a stop, and the Blackfish stepped forward and pounded on the door. The door opened, and Jaime squinted. The cell was large, or mayhaps it only seemed so, but it was ablaze with light, illuminated by torches and candles to numerous to count. The guards dragged Jaime into the cell, the door slamming shut behind them. There was a chair in the middle of the cell, and Jaime was dragged to it, shoved down upon it. A man knelt, wove more chains through the chains Jaime already wore, turned keys in more locks. The man tugged at the chains, fiddled with them a bit, gave a final tug, and stood, nodding at the Blackfish. Ser Brynden nodded back, and the door swung open on screeching hinges once more as the guards departed. Ser Brynden slammed the door shut behind the last of them, took up position behind Jaime’s chair. Jaime couldn’t see him, but he knew, knew as much as he knew his own name, that the Blackfish had naked steel in his hand, would run Jaime through as easy as a glutton carved a wheel of fresh sharp cheese.

Silence fell, heavy, leaden silence, silence that stretched out until Jaime swore he could feel the roar of his own blood in his own ears, feel the thud of his own heart down in his own bones. The silence stretched, stretched and stretched and _stretched,_ until a woman’s voice shattered it, a woman’s voice that lashed sharp as whip, a woman’s voice laced with anger and bitterness and grief.

It hurt to hear.

“Ser Jaime,” the woman said. There was a half-circle of chairs, at least a dozen, and the voice came from the center, right in front of him. “Do you know why you’re here?”

Jaime didn’t _know,_ but he was alive and not currently being strapped to a rack, so he could guess. “Something has happened,” he said, doing his best to sit tall and proud in his chair, trying to ignore how the poorly carved wood of the back bit into the skin just below his shoulders. “Of course,” he went on, trying to sound cool, easy, _flippant,_ “something is always happening. If you truly needed to speak to me, Lady Stark, there was no need for such theatrics.”

“These are no theatrics,” Lady Stark snapped. “Thousands of men are camped outside these walls, and near every one of them wants you dead. We brought you here under guard in case any of them tried.”

Jaime shrugged. “How is that different from any other day? Half the Seven Kingdoms wants me dead, and the other half doesn’t care either way. What changed?”

Lady Stark sighed. “Show him, Jon.”

Beside Lady Stark, a figure stirred. A chair screeched against the hard stone floor, and Jaime watched, trying desperately not to gasp in shock, as one of his ghosts stepped up before him and dropped a raven scroll in his lap.

Jaime had never been afraid of his ghosts. They could be tiresome, true, unsettling even, but they had the benefit of being dead. Aerys could cackles and shriek, Rickard Stark could scream and Brandon Stark could turn purple as the queer Tyroshi device strangled the life from him, and it didn’t matter. Elia Martell could scream and little baby Aegon could whimper and poor, sweet Rhaenys could clutch her kitten and scream as Ser Amory’s knife struck home and a crofter’s daughter could beg and plead for him to tell the truth, but Jaime could ignore them all. In the end, no matter how they tried to torment him, they were dead, and he was alive, and that was the end of it.

But then one of those ghosts had tried to kill him in the Whispering Wood, and Jaime’s world had been shattered and torn asunder. The ghost stood before him now, wearing a surcoat black as night with a white direwolf running across it. The ghost’s hand kept clenching and unclenching on the hilt of its sword, and as it looked down upon him, Jaime swore that he could see his death lurking deep within its eyes.

“You’re growing a beard,” Jaime croaked, his throat tight. 

Ser Jon Snow nodded. “Aye,” he admitted, “I am. My wife likes it.”

Jaime nodded, looked away, picked up the raven scroll in trembling hands, deadened fingers fumbling with the tiny, tight-curled parchment. “The Lady Roslin is wiser than she knows. It hides the cut of your jaw, might even soften your eyes a bit.”

He looked up, watched as Ser Jon’s face quivered, as if he was clenching that traitorous jaw. “Is it really that obvious?”

“If you know what to look for,” Jaime admitted. “In the Whispering Wood, all I could see were your eyes and your jaw. Those alone told me all I needed to know.”

Ser Jon nodded, pointed at the scroll. “Read, Kingslayer.”

Jaime unrolled the scroll, held it up to the light, and read.

_To Hoster Tully, Lord Paramount of the Trident, greetings._

_Let it be known that the traitor Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, has, after confessing his many treasons, been put to death. All true and loyal lords of the realm are hereby commanded to present themselves before the Iron Throne within one month’s time, there to renew their oaths of fealty to the Crown. All those who fail to do so are henceforth proclaimed to be in rebellion against their lawful and anointed sovereign, and shall share in Lord Stark’s fate._

_Done this day in sight of gods and men by command of Joffrey of House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

Jaime read it once, twice, and a few times more, before letting go of the scroll and letting it fall to the floor. Tears of bitterness and regret and relief burned in the corners of his eyes. For a moment, he had feared that it was Sansa Stark who had lost her head, had known beyond a shadow of a doubt that the ghost standing before him would gut him from groin to throat the moment he was done reading.

But the scroll made no mention of Sansa Stark, or Arya Stark for that matter, and so Jaime knew that the hour of his death had not yet arrived. It might arrive on the morrow, true, but it was not here in this cell, breathing hot and foul on the back of his neck.

Jaime turned to where Robb Stark sat, the Young Wolf, _the boy who beat me._ “You have my condolences, Lord Stark.” _I wanted to match swords with Ned Stark,_ Jaime remembered. _That day in the rain, my men interfered. I could’ve had him, but he could have had me, it was in the hands of the gods, until my men interfered._

_I so wanted to try my luck again. I wanted to run him through, to lean down and confess the truth about Aerys, to find out if he was still so proud and unbending then._

In that moment, it was not lost on Jaime that, given all that he now knew, Ned Stark might have been the only person in the Seven Kingdoms who might have understood the choice Jaime had made. _Burn them all,_ Aerys cackled.

 _Burn them all,_ Aerys whispered, as Jaime pulled his sword from the madman’s back, flipped him over, and bent down to cut his throat.

_Burn them all…_

_Ser Jaime, tell them the truth...please, gods, tell them the truth…_

_Tell Tyrion…_

“Can you prove it?”

Jaime opened his eyes. He didn’t remember closing them, but he had, so he opened them once more and looked up at the Bastard of Winterfell. “Pardon?” he croaked, his voice scarce more than a whisper.

“You’ve told my mother that Jon is the son of Rhaegar Targaryen,” Robb Stark said, his voice lashing at least as hard and cruel as his mother’s. “My brother wishes to know if you can prove it.”

“If I’m right,” Jaime pointed out, for reasons he couldn’t have possibly explained, “he’s your cousin, not your brother.”

The Young Wolf’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. “True or not, he’s my brother. Remember that before you speak again. _Can you prove it?”_

Jaime shrugged and spread his hands. “If people aren’t convinced by one long, hard look at his face, then no, I can’t prove it. All I have is my word, for whatever that’s worth.”

“Precious little!” a voice boomed. Jaime guessed that it was Greatjon Umber, but he couldn’t be sure. After all, he’d only seen the man once, at the feast Ned Stark had thrown when Robert had gone to Winterfell to offer the Lord of Winterfell the Handship.

Jaime acknowledged the voice with a nod. “You’re not wrong, my lord, but it’s all that I have.”

“So,” Ser Jon said, snatching the scroll off the floor and returning to his seat beside his... _brother,_ Jaime guessed, “you have nothing. As far as you know, I’m still a bastard.”

“We don’t even know how it happened!” yet another voice, one Jaime couldn’t even attempt to identify, called out. “For all we know, Ser Jon, gods help him, was born of kidnapping and rape.”

Something boiled, deep in whatever remained of Jaime’s soul. “ _No,_ ” he snapped, he didn’t know what he was angry, _didn’t Cersei and I intend to cuckhold Rhaegar as we cuckholded Robert,_ and yet... _and yet…_ “Prince Rhaegar wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t have done something like that.”

“How do you know?” the Young Wolf asked.

Jaime could only shrug. “I just do...if you’d met him, you’d understand. I can’t explain what happened, or why, _or anything, really,_ but I know it wasn’t rape.”

“But can you prove it?” Lady Stark asked.

Jaime wanted to. He didn’t know why he wanted to, but he did. _Where are you, Tyrion? You’d be able to figure out. Where are you when I need you?_

_Are you sure about that?_

**_SEVEN HELLS LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME-_ **

“No,” he admitted, his shoulders slumping in defeat, “I can’t. I can’t _prove_ anything. I just know what I know, and that’s the end of it.”

Ser Jon turned to his... _brother._ “So, we’re not better off than we were. If we can’t prove it, there’s nothing to be done.”

The Young Wolf sighed. “Aye, at least for the nonce.” The new Lord Stark stood, and for a moment, Jaime’s world was a roar of chairs scrapping across the floor and men rising to their feet in a chorus of creaks and groans and jangling sword belts. _This was a council,_ Jaime realized. _There are at least two-or-three dozen people here, every one some kind of lord._ “My lords,” the Young Wolf said, turning away from Jaime, the better to face his _great council,_ “I’m afraid that we’re right back where we started. Meet me again after supper on the morrow, in the godswood, where we will decide on our final course of action. Until then, I command you to hold your tongues about what you’ve heard here tonight.” He nodded at his lords, turned back to Jaime. “Ser Jaime, I’m afraid that you will remain here. It is for your own protection. The news of my father’s...my father’s…” The Young Wolf took a deep breath, and Jaime could here the sob he was choking back. “The news of my father’s fate is already spreading through the army, and you are no longer safe in your old cell. Your things will be brought to you in the morning.”

Jaime flashed what he hoped was something akin to a smile. “Not your fault,” he said. “Some things can’t be helped. Remind me to give my son a good birching next I see him.”

The Young Wolf grimaced. “Indeed. Until the next time.” And with that, the new Lord Stark left, his lords and bannermen filing out behind him.

The second-to-last person to leave was Lady Stark. She stopped before Jaime, shuddering with emotions Jaime hoped he would never understand. Tears poured down her face as she slapped Jaime across the face, and she was sobbing as the back of her hand returned to strike him again. She didn’t linger after that; she fled, in a flutter of skirts and a storm of grief.

The last to leave was Jaime’s ghost. Ser Jon stood before Jaime for what felt like a long time, his hand clenching the hilt of his sword in a death grip. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

Jaime nodded. The boy, after all, had a point. “Probably. Alas, you didn’t, and here we are.”

“Aye, here we are...I don’t know if you’ll ever go home.”

“I know.” Jaime had guessed as much, when he’d read the news of his secret son’s latest folly. With Ned Stark dead, Jaime was, quite frankly, too valuable to be exchanged. His side held no prisoner of even remotely comparable importance. Robb Stark might be willing to trade, say, Jaime’s cousin Willem for Sansa Stark, but never Jaime himself. “It could be worse.”

“Aye,” the boy said, “it could. You could be me.”

Jaime laughed. “Gods forbid.”

Ser Jon stared down at Jaime for a bit after that, before turning on his heel and leaving the room. Only the Blackfish remained, the Blackfish and a random guard. The guard unchained Jaime from the floor, but did nothing about Jaime’s shackles. The guard left, after which Ser Brynden moved to stand in front of Jaime. 

“You always disappoint, you know that, Kingslayer?” Ser Brynden shook his head. “I expect nothing, and yet you always disappoint.”

Jaime smiled. “What can I say, Ser Brynden? I have a reputation to maintain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lannister boys and their big mouths...
> 
> Not much to add here, beyond my usual apologies for a lack of proper proofreading. You'd think I'd learn to get my shit together and not publish these chapters in the middle of the night when I'm too tired to clean shit up properly, but there you go. Be kind.
> 
> Moving on! In Friday's episode, we continue with the denouement. Stay tuned!


	66. Meera

KILLING THE LIZARD-LION WAS THE EASY PART. True, lizard-lions were fierce and sneaky, with long, whip-like tails and teeth like daggers, but if one knew how to deal with them, anyone could kill them. Even Meera’s mother had killed a lizard-lion, and the Lady Reed would be the first to admit that she was a piss-poor excuse for a crannogwoman. Mother had been wearing skirts at the time and had somehow managed to not put a single strand of her long, dark hair out of place, but she’d killed one all the same. All one really needed was a good net, a sharp spear, a calm head and a bit of patience. 

            _No,_ Meera reflected, as she dragged the dead beast fully onto the shore and pulled her spear from its throat, _killing the damn things is easy. It’s getting them into the pot before they spoil that’s the hard part._ Meera pulled a cloth from her knapsack, began cleaning the blood from the spearpoint. “Any idea how we’re going to get this thing back to the boat?” she asked.

            Her brother shrugged as he carefully removed their net from around the lizard-lion. “Drag it back to the boat, I would imagine, same as always.”

            Meera grimaced. Lizard-lions were clever beasts and had long ago learned to be wary of men in general and boats in particular. If one wanted to catch one, one had to leave one’s boat behind, except for this time… “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’ve wandered a bit far from the boat today.”

            Jojen lifted a foot, the better to examine the mud that caked both it and his trousers all the way up to his waist. “So _that’s_ why my smallclothes are soaked through.”

            Meera laughed, jamming the sharpened butt of her spear into the soft ground. “Feeling a bit cheeky today, eh, brother? Fine then, _you_ can go back to the boat and get the hooks.”

            Jojen groaned. “Oh, come on, Meera, _you’re_ the one that killed it, _you_ go get the hooks.”

            “One,” Meera said, extending a finger, “ _we_ killed it, but since I struck the killing blow, _you_ get to go fetch the hooks, and two,” she extended another finger, “I’m your older sister, and that means I’m the boss, so _nyah._ ” She punctuated her points by turning her hand around, flipping her brother the V as she stuck her tongue out at him.

            Jojen, as usual, declined to rise to the bait, rolling his eyes as he hiked up his mud-and-swamp-water-stained-trousers and grabbed his frog spear. “Whatever, Meera, have it your way.” With that, he turned on his heel, laid his frog spear on his shoulder, and set off, humming softly as he trudged back to the boat, leaving Meera alone with a dead lizard-lion and the swamp.

She was smiling as she settled herself on a handy tree roat to wait. _Gods,_ she thought, _the swamp is beautiful today._ She loved the swamps of the Neck, they were her home, _her life, even,_ one day, Father had told her, she would rule it all, and yet even she could admit that it wasn’t often beautiful. Even an Umber, it was said, could find winter tiresome, and their mother swore that even a Dornishman could find occasion to hate the sands of the Red Dunes; why should a daughter of bog and crannog be any different? And for a time, her swamps had been anything _but_ lovely. The heat of summer was always worse the closer autumn became, _or so the old wives had it, anyways,_ and the past few months had been no different. The heat and the damp had built and built and built, the air becoming like pea soup and the trees shrouded in thick mists and swirling, foul-smelling miasmas. The insects roared through the nights, and sometimes the mists were so bad it was hard to tell when night ended and day began. Even bathing became a chore, for no matter how had one washed and scrubbed, one would become soaked in sweat and damp the moment they stepped from the bath. 

Now, though? Meera took a deep breath, filling her nose with the scents of the swamp. _Now, it’s beautiful._ A few days before, a storm had rolled in from the river lands. When it was over, the heat had broken. The days dawned clear, and the air was fresh and smelled of autumn. The mists had been washed away, and as Greywater Watch shook off the stupor of the heat wave, everyone was smiling, a spring in their steps. Meera had been tempted to dance from place-to-place rather than walk, and when Jojen shook her awake that morning and told her that they needed to go hunt, _just the two of them,_ she leapt into the air and shouted with glee.

            _I needed this,_ she thought, leaning back against the tree whose root she was sitting on. She balanced her spear across her thighs, let her eyes drift shut until they were naught more than little slits peering out at the world. She found herself wishing that she didn’t have to keep an eye on the lizard-lion, that she didn’t have to be ready to pounce upon any creature unlucky enough to try and take a bite out of her kill. Then, she could’ve just closed her eyes and dozed, could’ve allowed herself to drift off, to float up and away on the currents of dreams that had not a hint of green to them. 

            _Not so much as a hint of green…_

Just like that, Meera’s good mood was gone, replaced by a sense of unease and foreboding that sank needles of ice into her heart. _The green dreams are changing,_ Jojen had said. It had been a week ago, and Father had summoned them to his solar. Jojen and Meera had been together when the servant found them, Jojen reading a book, Meera sharpening her frog spear, doing her best to distract her little brother, to get him to look up from whatever dusty tome he was leafing through and make him _smile_ for once in his life. Meera was still trying, going so far as to poke her brother in the side just before they stepped through the door into Father’s solar, but all that earned her was a sullen scowl. Meera opened her mouth to call her brother a _ninny,_ but the word died in her throat as they were ushered into the room, all thoughts of laughter and joy fleeing from her mind as the door closed behind them, the _click_ of the lock making the hackles on the back of her neck stand on end.

            Mother and Father were both there, sitting side-by-side in chairs pushed close together. They were holding each other’s hands, and their faces were drawn, sad, _almost old._ Meera couldn’t imagine her parents being old, especially not Mother. Mother was from far away, had once waited on a woman who should have been Queen, had once considered herself friends with a wolf girl whose heart was untameable as the sea. Father still loved to tell the tale of how Mother had arrived in the Neck. _I will never figure out how she got here,_ he would say, joy and love sparkling in his eyes, _or how she managed to look so beautiful. There she stood, not a speck of dirt or dust on her, her hair as black as night and her eyes as hauntingly beautiful as ever. “You made me a promise once, crannogman,” she told me, holding out her hand. “I’m here to collect.”_

There was no laughter in Father’s solar that day, though, no laughter, no joy, Father and Mother and Meera and Jojen and a great, wondrous chest with a blood red dragon on its lid.

            _Just us,_ Meera remembered, _my family and the horrid weight of impossible secrets bearing down upon us._

“We have received a bird,” Mother said, her voice thick with the sun and heat of Dorne, “from Riverrun. Eddard Karstark, Lord Karstark’s son, is returning to the north with those too ill or injured to keep fighting.”

            “The Young Wolf wrote the letter himself,” Father continued, “in his own hand.” Meera’s parents had been like that as long as she could remember, switching back-and-forth, as if they had not just the one heart of the songs, but one mind, _one soul,_ as well. “Apparently, young Karstark is to stop here and speak with your mother and I.”

            “Alone,” Mother added.

            Meera had looked at Jojen, but to her consternation had found no help. Her brother seemed to have gone far away, his eyes clouded, his gaze upon one of the windows. Meera remembered biting down on a curse. _Mother hated it when she cursed._ “What about?” she had asked, turning back to her parents.

            Her parents exchanged a glance before Father answered. “The letter didn’t say. All it said was that it was of vital importance, not only to the north, but to realm, as well.”

            Meera had frowned. A week later, leaning against her tree, gazing upon her dead lizard-lion and waiting for her brother, she could still remember the nauseating feeling deep in her gut, the way the ground had seemed to shift beneath her feet. “ _The realm?”_ she had echoed.

            Mother had nodded. “Yes, my dear. _The realm.”_

_And that was when Jojen spoke, suddenly, his voice like a whip. **The green dreams are changing.**_

**_Something has shifted, and now the green dreams are changing…_ **

“Meera,” her brother’s voice said, cutting through her memories. “Meera, get up, Mother and Father are here.”

            Meera shot up and off her tree root, jumping to her feet and whirling around. Jojen was there, looking... _she didn’t even know,_ the hooks in one hand, long, sturdy shafts of banded oak with large, wicked-looking hooks at the end, the better to drag dead lizard-lions to where they needed to go.

            He was not alone, though, just as he’d said. He was flanked by their parents, and in the distance, Meera could hear voices, could make out the dim shapes of more crannogmen, part of what passed for a _household guard_ at Greywater Watch. 

            “Mother, Father,” Meera said, nodding at them both in turn. “I hope you weren’t worried about us…”

            Mother giggled and shook her head. “Worried about you, Meera? Perish the thought. We just…” She turned, laid a hand on Jojen’s shoulder. “We just...we’ve had another bird, and we couldn’t wait for you to return.”

            Father turned to his wife, a soft, sad smile on his face. “No, this was...this was _too important,_ we had to come out and find you ourselves.”

            Meera looked one to the other and back again, her sense of unease growing with each passing moment. Father and Mother looked...not happy, no, but... _relieved,_ as if a great weight had been lifted from their shoulders. They looked...lighter, nay, _younger than they’d looked in months,_ as if years of care and worry had been wiped away in a moment. Tears were sparkling in their eyes, and Meera couldn’t begin to fathom whether they were of grief or joy or some strange combination of the two.

            “Lord Stark is dead,” Jojen said, answering a question Meera hadn’t even thought. “King Joffrey took his head off four days ago.”

            At first, Meera couldn’t even think of what to say; it took time for her to recover, the sensation of the ground shifting and churning beneath her continuing all the while.”I...I...you didn’t see this?”

            Her brother shrugged. “I dreamed of a wolf the color of Mother’s hair being delivered in chains to a cage of ice. Lions of red and gold laughed and jeered, but it didn’t seem to bother the wolf. He had spoken a word long withheld, and he was smiling as the lions hurled him into his cage.” Jojen’s face fell, and he looked away. “I can’t begin to imagine what changed. All but one of my dreams have changed of late, and I can’t... _I can’t begin to explain it…_ ”

            Father clapped a hand to Jojen’s shoulder. “I think we can guess, your mother and I both, isn’t that right, Ashara?”

            Mother smiled, took her hand from Jojen’s shoulder, and walked over to Meera. “Yes,” she said, taking Meera’s hands in her own and gripping them tight, “I think we can.” 

            Meera looked from Mother to Father and back again, feeling lost, _adrift._ “You seem... _almost happy,_ Mother…”

            Mother sighed. “We’re not happy, Meera…”

            “Ned Stark was one of my oldest friends,” Father said. “His death brings me no joy, not when he was so close to getting the chance to put to rights all of his many mistakes.”

            “But the thing is,” Mother continued, “the oath your father and I swore died with poor Ned. We are... _released,_ free from the burden of my dearest friend’s dying wishes, free from the chains of Ned’s impossible promises.”

            “He already knows, Mother,” Jojen said, his tone grave and solemn. “I dreamed of it a week ago. I watched as a white wolf turned into a white dragon, while the fish cried and begged forgiveness and a tattered lion brooded in darkness.”

            “If he truly knew,” Father replied, “then he would have turned into a red dragon, not a white one. All he can do is suspect.”

            “Gods, poor dear,” Mother said, “he must be so confused. I can’t get there soon enough.”

            Meera frowned, her heart dropping, cold as ice, into her boots. “Get where, Mother…?”

            Mother smiled, and for a moment, she looked like a little girl on her nameday. “To Riverrun, of course. It’s time young Jon got see what was inside that chest your father and I are hiding in his solar.” She released one of Meera’s hands, the better to raise one of her own, palm out, as if she was about to clap it over Meera’s mouth. “And I know, I haven’t left the Neck since I first arrived, but it’s time.”

            “I’ve already lodged many complaints and objections,” Father added. “It seems that the heart of the Sword of the Morning still beats strong and true in his sister’s breast.”

            Mother was giggling as she turned to look at her husband over her shoulder. “Did you ever doubt it?”

            Father smiled. “No, my love, I never did.”

            “And…” Meera paused, gathered her strength, somehow resisted the urge to hurl herself into her mother’s arms. “And...what of us? You can’t mean for Mother to go alone.”

            Father scoffed. “Of course not. Our best people will escort her to the edge of the Neck, there to await the Karstark boy’s coming. As for you two…” Father’s voice trailed off, and his face darkened.

            The silence didn’t last for long; Jojen was quick to pick up the tale. “I said all my green dreams had changed but one, sister. One still remains, and it grows stronger every time I have it.”

            Meera didn’t have to hear the dream; she knew it by heart by now. _I keep dreaming of a three-eyed raven,_ Jojen would say, the morning after he had had the dream. _There is crippled wolf, chained in the yard of Winterfell, and the raven is desperately trying to free it. Every once in a while, the raven looks over at me, looks over and glares and says, **Gods, what’s taking you so long?**_

            “We’re going to Winterfell,” Meera said, and this time, she saw, the tears were well and truly pouring down Mother’s face. “Jojen and I, we’re going to Winterfell to free a crippled wolf.”

            “Aye,” Father said, “you are. I’m sorry.”

            Father said more, Father and Mother and even Jojen, but Meera couldn’t hear any of it. Blood was roaring in her ears, and above it, faint as a whisper from the bottom of a well, she could hear her brother’s voice from that morning, after they had pushed their boat into the water to begin their hunt.

            _I haven’t had the death dream,_ her brother had said, his voice that of an old man, worn and weary. _I haven’t had it for months, not since Jon Snow would’ve been called down off the Wall._

 _That’s good, isn’t it?_ Meera had said. Those with the greensight were said to be able to see the moment of their deaths, and Jojen had been no different. She had forbidden him to tell her what he had seen, but it still lurked between them, thick and cold as death.

            Jojen had sighed, looking off into the distance, gaze fixed on things only he could see. _I don’t know, Meera,_ he had said.

            _I don’t know, and gods, it frightens me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prophecy is always like a half-trained mule...
> 
> So, first off, I'm sorry. This was supposed to go up on Friday, along with a message about how updates would be...shall we say...erratic, over the Thanksgiving holiday. You see, my wife and I had two kids under three, so we host Thanksgiving; it's the only way to avoid dragging two little boys around half the D/FW Metroplex, you know? But I wasn't anticipating the holiday insanity starting on last Friday morning, so, sorry. Thus, let's put the warning here: Updates will be erratic this week.
> 
> On the other hand, we're about four-to-five chapters away from the end of the first part of this...whatever the hell this is, so there's that, you know?
> 
> And yes, I subscribe to the theory that Lady Reed is Ashara Dayne. That should be obvious by now, but there you go.
> 
> Moving on! In...um...in the next episode, Tyrion discusses certain rumors with his father. Stay tuned!


	67. Tyrion

IT HAD BEEN ONE OF HIS FINER MOMENTS. The war council had dragged one, lords and knights quibbling and squabbling, Father seething with barely contained rage. On and on it had gone, until Tyrion swore he could feel the his blood pulsing in his veins. In the end, he hadn’t been able to take it anymore, had tossed his cup to ground, smiled as it shattered into a thousand-thousand pieces. Silence had fallen, silence heavy and leaden as the grave, and for once, every eye was upon him, and not even one whispered the word _freak._

            _There’s your peace, Ser Harys,_ he had drawled, for all he had wanted to _snarl,_ preferably while trying to beat the soft, obsequious look out of Ser Harys Swyft. _Knight of Cornfield,_ he had thought, as he swallowed his anger and spelled out the facts of life. _Knight of a pile of rocks, more like. You’re lucky you’re my uncle’s good-father, you bald, small-chinned oaf._ The others were just as bad, worse, even, but Ser Harys had been the last to speak, so it was Ser Harys who endured the brunt of Tyrion’s annoyance. It was all so clear, _so bloody clear,_ they were caught between the proverbial _rock and a hard place,_ Jaime captured and too valuable to ransom, an entire army annihilated, the Reach about to declare against them, Stannis prowling the seas, only the gods knew which way the Vale would jump, _and these fools talk of **peace?**_

 _My beloved nephew saw to **that.** Who could possibly be fool enough to negotiate with us **now?**_ It was a matter of blood now, blood and gods-damned honor, and like it or not, the Stark boys were _winning._

            Tyrion frowned. _The Stark boys…_

_Or mayhaps the Stark **boy,** and Jon…_

_Oh, you silly bastard, you should have stayed on the Wall…_

“You’re still here.”

            Father’s voice was hard, cold, sharp as the crack of a whip. It grated upon Tyrion’s nerves, made him want to take up a dagger and carve the man’s heart out, find out if Tywin Lannister really did shit gold. _He’s written Jaime off, and now I’m all that’s left to him._ Tyrion looked at his father, watched the Lord of Casterly Rock grind his teeth, as if every moment in his youngest son’s presence caused him physical pain. _Who knows? Mayhaps it does._

_Good. Let him choke on it._

“I am,” Tyrion admitted, taking a deep gulp from the wine his father had poured him. “Continuing to exist in spaces where I’m not welcome is one of my lesser talents.”

            Something quivered at the corner of Father’s mouth, something akin to amusement, though Tyrion didn’t quite believe it. “It is,” Father admitted, the quiver gone, as if it had never existed. “You don’t have many virtues, but you do have the talent of persistence, I’ll give you that.”

            Tyrion tipped his cup at his father in mock salute. “Careful, Father; choke out any more compliments, and you’re like to give yourself apoplexy.”

            Father’s face fell, even the suggestion of emotion banished behind a wall of ice and stone. A snippet of song drifted into Tyrion’s mind, half-remembered and probably all wrong. _High in the halls of the kings who are gone…_

_Now, why would I think of **that** dreary little song?_

“I’ve given you your instructions,” Father snapped, his hand tightening on the stem of his cup until the knuckles were white as bone. “Go to King’s Landing, take that stupid boy and your fool of a sister in hand, and if anyone stands in your way-”

            Tyrion waved a hand through the air. “Again, _heads, spikes, walls._ I agreed. I’ll go at first light, Father. It’s not the sewers of the Rock, but I promise to do my best.”

            Tyrion could almost _swear_ that he could hear his father’s teeth grind together. _Careful, Father; grind your teeth much more, and you’ll be as sour-tempered as Stannis Baratheon._

            “And yet,” Father said, his voice low, flat, _threatening,_ “you remain. Was I unclear on something?”

            Tyrion shrugged, drained the dregs from his cup, let it drop with a clatter onto the table. “Not at all, Father. But…” He took a deep breath, let it out. _Careful...careful…_ “You can’t contain the rumors forever, Father.”

            Father blinked. _That arrow came close to the mark,_ Tyrion realized. _There’s more at play behind those gold-flecked eyes than even I can guess at._ “What rumors?”

            Tyrion bit down on the urge to laugh. “The ones filtering out of Riverrun.”

            Some of the tension leaked out of Father’s shoulders, and his teeth were no longer grinding as he slumped ( _or as close as he ever came; only humans **slumped,** and Tyrion could not quite imagine his father as being anything as mundane as **human**_ ) back into his chair. “Oh, _those._ If you put any stock in rumors bandied about by traitors, then mayhaps I should send someone else to court in my place.”

            Tyrion smiled. “If you have any better options, I long to hear them.” Father answered with a glare, and Tyrion bowed his head. “Thought so. Still...it would explain much. Jaime always did have a strange loyalty to Rhaegar’s memory…”

            “And even if this Stark bastard is, in fact, Rhaegar Targaryen’s bastard, he’s still a bastard,” Father replied. “No one in the Seven Kingdoms will shed blood for a bastard, not after the Blackfyres, and especially not one born of kidnap and rape.”

            “Hmm...not even Dorne?”

            Tyrion was...if not _pleased,_ at the very least _intrigued_ at how his father actually _paused_ before replying. It felt...well... _it felt like something other than defeat, at the very least._ “Dorne is welcome to try,” Father said. “I welcome them to march their spears across the whole of the Reach; it could only help us.”

            Tyrion nodded. His father, after all, had a point. If Highgarden truly had declared for Renly, then anything that diverted the strength of the Reach could only benefit House Lannister. “Fair enough...but what if he’s _not_ a bastard…?”

            Father pursed his lips. “And how could we confirm _that?”_

Tyrion shrugged. “Surely, we have ways of finding out, ways that wouldn’t involve Lord Varys?”

            “And what if that simpering eunuch found out? What if _anyone_ found out that we were so much as _considering_ the possibility?” Father raised a hand in the air, let it fall to the surface of the table with a dull _thwack._ “I can’t even send an assassin for this _Jon Snow._ If the bastard so much as gets on the wrong end of a donkey, the Seven Kingdoms will take it as proof of what is little more than the craven lie of an angry, vengeance-addled boy. No,” he continued, his head snapping to-and-fro in a vicious shake, “I will _not_ be tricked into lending credence to bald fabrications. Let Robb Stark claim the Iron Throne if he wishes, for himself or his father’s bastard; he’ll get no help from me.” Father’s eyes narrowed, his pale green eyes hard and cold enough to make the flecks of gold seem pale and sharp as shards of ice. “Nor will he get any help from _you._ Jaime walked into a trap and let himself be defeated by Lord Stark’s by-blow. Your loyalty to your brother does you credit, but don’t let it go any further than that.”

            And the thing was, as much as Tyrion hated to admit it, his father had a point. He _was_ blindly loyal to his brother, and as much as Tyrion had liked Jon Snow, _continued to like Jon Snow,_ it stung that Jaime should be mocked from the Wall to Sunspear for getting tricked by a boy and beaten in single combat by that boy’s bastard brother. _But, you’ve seen Jon playing at swords in the yard,_ a voice whispered in his ear. _He’s good, but he’s not **that** good. There’s more to this than meets the-_

“And Tyrion?”

            Tyrion sighed, shoved himself back from the table and slid to the ground. “You’ve made your point, Father,” he said, turning on his heel and starting on the long, always humiliating waddle back to his tent. _I’ll need to discuss this with Bronn. The rough and brutal wisdom of a sellsword may be just what I need right now._ “I’m going.”

            “Good,” Father snapped, “and see that you don’t take that _whore_ to court with you.”

            Tyrion skidded to a halt. Silver coins slid in a torrent from hands that shook from pain and humiliation, and half-remembered tears burned in his eyes. “Of course not, Father,” he choked out, not trusting himself to look back at his lord father. “I was going to set her up in a manse, entertain myself when necessary, and send her away with a sack of gold once I tired of her.” _That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it, you son-of-a-bitch? That’s what the sons of lords are supposed to do with whores, right?_

But it _wasn’t_ what the Lord of Casterly Rock wanted to hear, for reasons Tyrion suspected, but could never quite bring himself to confront. “If she means that little to you, hand her that sack of gold now and be done with it. Or do I need to give you another lesson in what it means to be a Lannister?”

            _No, a hundred coins of silver and one of gold was more than enough for **that,** you monster. _But Tyrion didn’t say that. After all, what point would it serve?

            “That won’t be necessary,” Tyrion choked out, doing nothing to hide his rage. After all, it wasn’t as if his father would care. “I do regret that I promised her a rather large sack.”

            Father waved the point aside as if it was little more than a leaf on the wind. “So be it. See the treasurer, he’ll give you as much gold as you need, just see that she’s gone by morning.”

            _Why?_ The word hung in the air, an unspoken accusation, the word that had lurked at the edges of ever interaction Tyrion had ever had with his father. _Why? Why do you care? Why do you treat me this way?_ Tyrion had said it, once, all those years ago, when the men-at-arms in their golden armor and their crimson capes had kicked down the door and hauled him and Tysha out of bed. _Why does he care? Why can’t he just let me be?_ But he had never said it to his father’s face, had never been able to bring himself to confront the obvious answer. After all, it couldn’t be true, could it? That his own father hated him so much that the man just wanted to watch Tyrion suffer? _No, it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true._ Better anything but that.

            _Anything but that…_

Tyrion bit down on the question, forced it down like so much bile the morning after a night of too much wine. _Anything but that._ He was a coward. He was stunted freak and a coward and so he just flashed a smile at his father and wiped his eyes and waddled from the tent. He truly hated his body then. Jaime could storm from a tent, no, Jaime could _stride,_ and how many times at Jaime stormed out of a room on Tyrion’s behalf? More times that Tyrion could possibly count.

            _My life would have been nothing but misery if not for you._ If Tyrion believed in gods, only they would have known how many times he had said those words to his brother. Jaime always looked said, _pained,_ when Tyrion said something like that.

            It was time like this that Tyrion almost let himself wonder why.

            Later, as the sun rose on Tyrion and his escort, on his insolent sellsword and his quarrelsome mountain men, Tyrion would wonder what hurt worse. The knowledge that his father probably forgot all about it the moment Tyrion left the tent? The way the treasurer’s assistant, a mealy-mouth, bird-necked little toad with a receding hairline and watery eyes who wore the robes of a novice maester, robes spattered with raven shit, smirked at him as he made Tyrion sign for the gold?

            Or the fact that Shae was already packing her bags when Tyrion got back to their tent?

            “You alright, Tyrion?” Bronn asked, looking at him with the searching eyes of a man who knew him too well.

            Tyrion smiled. _I’ll show them._

_I’ll show them **all.**_

            “Why wouldn’t I be?”

            Bronn grimaced. “She was very pretty, you know.”

            _I know. Oh, gods, do I know. But it’ll be worth it._

_I’ll **make** it worth it._

Tyrion waved a hand through the air. “Easy come, easy go. She got what she wanted.” He looked back over his shoulder. “And a Lannister always pays his debts.”

            Bronn nodded. “Aye, I’m starting to get that impression.”

            Tyrion allowed himself a smile, made genuine by the image of Jon Snow striding down from the Iron Throne and slicing his father’s head from the bastard’s neck.

            “Oh, Bronn, you have no idea.”        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm back! And I'm ready to roll!
> 
> Those playing the home game may be wondering, Hey, Morgan, where the fuck did you go? Well, that's a complicated question. First, Thanksgiving happened, which was a fucking trial. Then, a few days later, my wife and I gave our boys a bath. Now, our sons get along quite well, which is generally a blessing, but a bath time, they have far too much fun splashing each other, and my tennis shoes are in desperate need of replacement and, like a dipshit, I was wearing my shoes. Long story short, I slipped, and cracked a rib. Ever cracked a rib? It's not fun. And because I live in America and don't have health insurance, my only recourse was to, well, suffer. By the time that was (mostly) healed, it was Christmas, and let me tell you, that was a fucking pig's ear. By the time that was all over, it was January, and I was afraid to return to this narrative.
> 
> But the thing is, it wouldn't let me go, you know? And there are other things I want to do. The next installment of this story, for instance, and Zutara Month is coming up, and there's this Battlestar Galactica/Star Trek crossover that just won't let me go, thanks for that, Star Trek: Picard (which fucking slaps, btw), and, well, it was time to finish what I started.
> 
> Which brings us here, now, to Tyrion. Yes, I just shuffled Shae out of the story. Why? Because I understand GRRM setting his story in an accurate medieval setting, but you know what? This is fanfiction. If I don't want to immerse myself in a story that is overflowing with brutal violence against women, I don't fucking have to. One of my earliest memories is of my biological father beating the shit out of my mother. I reserve the right to not give myself flashbacks.
> 
> Moving on! In the next episode (which, God willing, will arrive sometime this weekend), an old knight makes a new choice. Stay tuned!


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